l  1     m $ 

Wt 

rrPTV 

ELS  "'"■  ■  * 

f\ 

WHIIffi  ir 

\    | jlllj     j  )•;      nWI 

w*- 

15 

• 


ii 

■  : 

GIFT  or 


# 


UUUjf 


%\ 


H 


1 


J 


wtk/Hy^ 


THE   FOUR   FEATHERS 


*&%&. 


THE    FOUR   FEATHERS 


BY 


A.   E.   W.   MASON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  MIRANDA  OF  THE  BALCONY,"   "  THE   COURTSHIP 
OF  MORRICE  BUCKLER,"  ETC. 


Nefo  fgotft 
THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1903 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1901, 
By  A.  E.  W.  MASON. 

Copyright,  1902, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  October,  1902.      Reprinted 
November,  December,  1902  ;  January,  1903  ;  February, 
March;  June,  August,  1903. 


NortoooD  $rras 

3.  S.  Cushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Male.  U.S.A. 


He 


Co 
MISS   ELSPETH  ANGELA  CAMPBELL 

June  19,  1902. 


« J  o 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.  A  Crimean  Night     .... 

II.  Captain  Trench  and  a  Telegram 

III.  The  Last  Ride  Together 

IV.  The  Ball  at  Lennon  House  . 

V.  The  Pariah 

VI.  Harry  Feversham's  Plan 

VII.  The  Last  Reconnaissance 

VIII.  Lieutenant  Sutch  is  tempted  to  lie 

IX.  At  Glenalla 

X.  The  Wells  of  Obak 

XI.  DURRANCE    HEARS   NEWS   OF   FEVERSHAM 

XII.  DURRANCE    SHARPENS  HIS  WlTS 

XIII.  DURRANCE    BEGINS    TO   SEE 

XIV.  Captain  Willoughby  reappears    . 
XV.  The  Story  of  the  First  Feather 

XVI.  Captain  Willoughby  retires 

XVII.  The  Musoline  Overture 

XVIII.  The  Answer  to  the  Overture 

XIX.  Mrs.  Adair  interferes  . 

XX.  West  and  East        .... 

XXI.  Ethne  makes  Another  Slip  . 

vii 


i 
16 
26 

35 
52 
58 
72 

83 
92 
105 
112 
121 
141 

153 
165 

181 

194 

202 

216 

229 

238 


VU1 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.      DURRANCE   LETS  HIS   ClGAR   GO   OUT          .           .  250 

XXIII.  Mrs.  Adair  makes  her  Apology         .        .  261 

XXIV.  On  the  Nile 271 

XXV.    Lieutenant  Sutch  comes  off  the  Half- 
pay  List 279 

XXVI.     General   Feversham's  Portraits  are  ap- 
peased            298 

XXVII.     The  House  of  Stone 307 

XXVIII.    Plans  of  Escape 325 

XXIX.    Colonel  Trench  assumes  a  Knowledge  of 

Chemistry 339 

XXX.    The  Last  of  the  Southern  Cross     .        .  355 

XXXI.     Feversham  returns  to  Ramelton      .        .  367 

XXXII.     In  the  Church  at  Glenalla       .        .        .376 

XXXIII.  Ethne  again  plays  the  Musoline  Overture  387 

XXXIV.  The  End 396 


THE   FOUR   FEATHERS 


THE    FOUR   FEATHERS1 


CHAPTER   I 

A    CRIMEAN    NIGHT 

Lieutenant  Sutch  was  the  first  of  General  Fever- 
sham's  guests  to  reach  Broad  Place.  He  arrived  about 
five  o'clock  on  an  afternoon  of  sunshine  in  mid  June, 
and  the  old  red-brick  house,  lodged  on  a  southern  slope 
of  the  Surrey  hills,  was  glowing  from  a  dark  forest 
depth  of  pines  with  the  warmth  of  a  rare  jewel.  Lieu- 
tenant Sutch  limped  across  the  hall,  where  the  por- 
traits of  the  Fevershams  rose  one  above  the  other  to 
the  ceiling,  and  went  out  on  to  the  stone-flagged 
terrace  at  the  back.  There  he  found  his  host  sitting 
erect  like  a  boy,  and  gazing  southward  toward  the 
Sussex  Downs. 

"  How's  the  leg  ?  "  asked  General  Feversham,  as  he 
rose  briskly  from  his  chair.  He  was  a  small  wiry 
man,  and,  in  spite  of  his  white  hairs,  alert.  But  the 
alertness  was  of  the  body.  A  bony  face,  with  a  high 
narrow  forehead  and  steel-blue  inexpressive  eyes,  sug- 
gested a  barrenness  of  mind. 

1  The  character  of  Harry  Feversham  is  developed  from  a  short  story 
by  the  author,  originally  printed  in  the  Illustrated  London  News,  and 
since  republished. 

B  I 


THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 


•  t 


"It  gave  me  trouble  during  the  winter,"  replied 
Sutch.  "  But  that  was  to  be  expected."  General 
Feversham  nodded,  and  for  a  little  while  both  men 
were  silent.  From  the  terrace  the  ground  fell  steeply 
to  a  wide  level  plain  of  brown  earth  and  emerald  fields 
and  dark  clumps  of  trees.  From  this  plain  voices  rose 
through  the  sunshine,  small  but  very  clear.  Far  away 
toward  Horsham  a  coil  of  white  smoke  from  a  train 
snaked  rapidly  in  and  out  amongst  the  trees ;  and  on 
the  horizon  rose  the  Downs,  patched  with  white  chalk. 

"I  thought  that  I  should  find  you  here,"  said 
Sutch. 

"It  was  my  wife's  favourite  corner,"  answered 
Feversham  in  a  quite  emotionless  voice.  "She  would 
sit  here  by  the  hour.  She  had  a  queer  liking  for  wide 
and  empty  spaces." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sutch.  "  She  had  imagination.  Her 
thoughts  could  people  them." 

General  Feversham  glanced  at  his  companion  as 
though  he  hardly  understood.  But  he  asked  no  ques- 
tions. What  he  did  not  understand  he  habitually  let 
slip  from  his  mind  as  not  worth  comprehension.  He 
spoke  at  once  upon  a  different  topic. 

"  There  will  be  a  leaf  out  of  our  table  to-night." 

"  Yes.  Collins,  Barberton,  and  Vaughan  went  this 
winter.  Well,  we  are  all  permanently  shelved  upon 
the  world's  half-pay  list  as  it  is.  The  obituary  column 
is  just  the  last  formality  which  gazettes  us  out  of  the 
service  altogether,"  and  Sutch  stretched  out  and  eased 
his  crippled  leg,  which  fourteen  years  ago  that  day 
had  been  crushed  and  twisted  in  the  fall  of  a  scaling- 
ladder. 

"1    am   glad  that    you   came  before  the  others," 


A    CRIMEAN  NIGHT  3 

continued  Feversham.  "I  would  like  to  take  your 
opinion.  This  day  is  more  to  me  than  the  anniver- 
sary of  our  attack  upon  the  Redan.  At  the  very 
moment  when  we  were  standing  under  arms  in  the 
dark  —  " 

"  To  the  west  of  the  quarries ;  I  remember,"  inter- 
rupted Sutch,  with  a  deep  breath.  "  How  should  one 
forget  ? " 

"At  that  very  moment  Harry  was  born  in  this 
house.  I  thought,  therefore,  that  if  you  did  not  ob- 
ject, he  might  join  us  to-night.  He  happens  to  be  at 
home.  He  will,  of  course,  enter  the  service,  and  he 
might  learn  something,  perhaps,  which  afterward  will 
be  of  use  —  one  never  knows." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Sutch,  with  alacrity.  For  since 
his  visits  to  General  Feversham  were  limited  to  the 
occasion  of  these  anniversary  dinners,  he  had  never 
yet  seen  Harry  Feversham. 

Sutch  had  for  many  years  been  puzzled  as  to  the 
qualities  in  General  Feversham  which  had  attracted 
Muriel  Graham,  a  woman  as  remarkable  for  the  refine- 
ment of  her  intellect  as  for  the  beauty  of  her  person ; 
and  he  could  never  find  an  explanation.  He  had  to 
be  content  with  his  knowledge  that  for  some  myste- 
rious reason  she  had  married  this  man  so  much  older 
than  herself  and  so  unlike  to  her  in  character.  Per- 
sonal courage  and  an  indomitable  self-confidence  were 
the  chief,  indeed  the  only,  qualities  which  sprang  to 
light  in  General  Feversham.  Lieutenant  Sutch  went 
back  in  thought  over  twenty  years,  as  he  sat  on  his 
garden-chair,  to  a  time  before  he  had  taken  part,  as 
an  officer  of  the  Naval  Brigade,  in  that  unsuccessful 
onslaught  on  the  Redan.     He  remembered  a  season 


4 


THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 


in  London  to  which  he  had  come  fresh  from  the  China 
station;  and  he  was  curious  to  see  Harry  Feversham. 
He  did  not  admit  that  it  was  more  than  the  natural 
curiosity  of  a  man  who,  disabled  in  comparative  youth, 
had  made  a  hobby  out  of  the  study  of  human  nature. 
He  was  interested  to  see  whether  the  lad  took  after 
his  mother  or  his  father  —  that  was  all. 

So  that  night  Harry  Feversham  took  a  place  at 
the  dinner-table  and  listened  to  the  stories  which  his 
elders  told,  while  Lieutenant  Sutch  watched  him. 
The  stories  were  all  of  that  dark  winter  in  the  Crimea, 
and  a  fresh  story  was  always  in  the  telling  before  its 
predecessor  was  ended.  They  were  stories  of  death, 
of  hazardous  exploits,  of  the  pinch  of  famine,  and 
the  chill  of  snow.  But  they  were  told  in  clipped 
words  and  with  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  as  though  the 
men  who  related  them  were  only  conscious  of  them 
as  far-off  things ;  and  there  was  seldom  a  comment 
more  pronounced  than  a  mere  "  That's  curious,"  or  an 
exclamation  more  significant  than  a  laugh. 

But  Harry  Feversham  sat  listening  as  though  the 
incidents  thus  carelessly  narrated  were  happening 
actually  at  that  moment  and  within  the  walls  of  that 
room.  His  dark  eyes  —  the  eyes  of  his  mother  — 
turned  with  each  story  from  speaker  to  speaker,  and 
waited,  wide  open  and  fixed,  until  the  last  word  was 
spoken.  He  listened  fascinated  and  enthralled.  And 
so  vividly  did  the  changes  of  expression  shoot  and 
quiver  across  his  face,  that  it  seemed  to  Sutch  the  lad 
must  actually  hear  the  drone  of  bullets  in  the  air,  ac- 
tually resist  the  stunning  shock  of  a  charge,  actually 
ride  down  in  the  thick  of  a  squadron  to  where  guns 
screeched  out  a  tongue  of  flame  from  a  fog.     Once  a 


A   CRIMEAN  NIGHT  5 

major  of  artillery  spoke  of  the  suspense  of  the  hours 
between  the  parading  of  the  troops  before  a  battle 
and  the  first  command  to  advance ;  and  Harry's 
shoulders  worked  under  the  intolerable  strain  of 
those  lagging  minutes. 

But  he  did  more  than  work  his  shoulders.  He 
threw  a  single  furtive,  wavering  glance  backwards  ; 
and  Lieutenant  Sutch  was  startled,  and  indeed  more 
than  startled,  —  he  was  pained.  For  this  after  all  was 
Muriel  Graham's  boy. 

The  look  was  too  familiar  a  one  to  Sutch.  He  had 
seen  it  on  the  faces  of  recruits  during  their  first  expe- 
rience of  a  battle  too  often  for  him  to  misunderstand 
it.  And  one  picture  in  particular  rose  before  his 
mind,  —  an  advancing  square  at  Inkermann,  and  a 
tall  big  soldier  rushing  forward  from  the  line  in  the 
eagerness  of  his  attack,  and  then  stopping  suddenly 
as  though  he  suddenly  understood  that  he  was  alone, 
and  had  to  meet  alone  the  charge  of  a  mounted  Cos- 
sack. Sutch  remembered  very  clearly  the  fatal 
wavering  glance  which  the  big  soldier  had  thrown 
backward  toward  his  companions,  —  a  glance  accom- 
panied by  a  queer  sickly  smile.  He  remembered 
too,  with  equal  vividness,  its  consequence.  For 
though  the  soldier  carried  a  loaded  musket  and  a 
bayonet  locked  to  the  muzzle,  he  had  without  an 
effort  of  self-defence  received  the  Cossack's  lance- 
thrust  in  his  throat. 

Sutch  glanced  hurriedly  about  the  table,  afraid 
that  General  Feversham,  or  that  some  one  of  his 
guests,  should  have  remarked  the  same  look  and  the 
same  smile  upon  Harry's  face.  But  no  one  had  eyes 
for  the  lad ;  each  visitor  was  waiting  too  eagerly  for 


6  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

an  opportunity  to  tell  a  story  of  his  own.  Sutch  drew 
a  breath  of  relief  and  turned  to  Harry.  But  the  boy 
was  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  the  cloth  and  his  head 
propped  between  his  hands,  lost  to  the  glare  of  the 
room  and  its  glitter  of  silver,  constructing  again  out 
of  the  swift  succession  of  anecdotes  a  world  of  cries 
and  wounds,  and  maddened  riderless  chargers  and 
men  writhing  in  a  fog  of  cannon-smoke.  The  curt- 
est,  least  graphic  description  of  the  biting  days  and 
nights  in  the  trenches  set  the  lad  shivering.  Even 
his  face  grew  pinched,  as  though  the  iron  frost  of 
that  winter  was  actually  eating  into  his  bones.  Sutch 
touched  him  lightly  on  the  elbow. 

"  You  renew  those  days  for  me,"  said  he.  "  Though 
the  heat  is  dripping  down  the  windows,  I  feel  the  chill 
of  the  Crimea." 

Harry  roused  himself  from  his  absorption. 

"The  stories  renew  them,"  said  he. 

"  No.     It  is  you  listening  to  the  stories." 

And  before  Harry  could  reply,  General  Fever- 
sham's  voice  broke  sharply  in  from  the  head  of  the 
table :  — 

"  Harry,  look  at  the  clock  !  " 

At  once  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  lad.  The 
hands  of  the  clock  made  the  acutest  of  angles.  It 
was  close  upon  midnight ;  and  from  eight,  without  so 
much  as  a  word  or  a  question,  he  had  sat  at  the 
dinner-table  listening.  Yet  even  now  he  rose  with 
reluctance. 

"Must  I  go,  father?"  he  asked,  and  the  general's 
guests  intervened  in  a  chorus.  The  conversation  was 
clear  gain  to  the  lad,  a  first  taste  of  powder  which 
might  stand  him  in  good  stead  afterwards. 


A    CRIMEAN  NIGHT  7 

"Besides,  it's  the  boy's  birthday,"  added  the  major 
of  artillery.  "  He  wants  to  stay  ;  that's  plain.  You 
wouldn't  find  a  youngster  of  fourteen  sit  all  these 
hours  without  a  kick  of  the  foot  against  the  table-leg 
unless  the  conversation  entertained  him.  Let  him 
stay,  Feversham !  " 

For  once  General  Feversham  relaxed  the  iron 
discipline  under  which  the  boy  lived. 

"Very  well,"  said  he.  "Harry  shall  have  an 
hour's  furlough  from  his  bed.  A  single  hour  won't 
make  much  difference." 

Harry's  eyes  turned  toward  his  father,  and  just 
for  a  moment  rested  upon  his  face  with  a  curious 
steady  gaze.  It  seemed  to  Sutch  that  they  uttered  a 
question,  and,  rightly  or  wrongly,  he  interpreted  the 
question  into  words  :  — 

"  Are  you  blind  ?  " 

But  General  Feversham  was  already  talking  to  his 
neighbours,  and  Harry  quietly  sat  down,  and  again 
propping  his  chin  upon  his  hands,  listened  with  all 
his  soul.  Yet  he  was  not  entertained  ;  rather  he  was 
enthralled ;  he  sat  quiet  under  the  compulsion  of  a 
spell.  His  face  became  unnaturally  white,  his  eyes 
unnaturally  large,  while  the  flames  of  the  candles 
shone  ever  redder  and  more  blurred  through  a  blue 
haze  of  tobacco  smoke,  and  the  level  of  the  wine  grew 
steadily  lower  in  the  decanters. 

Thus  half  of  that  one  hour's  furlough  was  passed  ; 
and  then  General  Feversham,  himself  jogged  by  the 
unlucky  mention  of  a  name,  suddenly  blurted  out  in 
his  jerky  fashion  :  — 

"  Lord  Wilmington.  One  of  the  best  names  in 
England,  if  you  please.      Did  you  ever  see  his  house 


8  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

in  Warwickshire?  Every  inch  of  the  ground  you 
would  think  would  have  a  voice  to  bid  him  play  the 
man,  if  only  in  remembrance  of  his  fathers.  ...  It 
seemed  incredible  and  mere  camp  rumour,  but  the 
rumour  grew.  If  it  was  whispered  at  the  Alma,  it 
was  spoken  aloud  at  Inkermann,  it  was  shouted  at 
Balaclava.  Before  Sebastopol  the  hideous  thing  was 
proved.  Wilmington  was  acting  as  galloper  to  his 
general.  I  believe  upon  my  soul  the  general  chose 
him  for  the  duty,  so  that  the  fellow  might  set  himself 
right.  There  were  three  hundred  yards  of  bullet- 
swept  flat  ground,  and  a  message  to  be  carried  across 
them.  Had  Wilmington  toppled  off  his  horse  on  the 
way,  why,  there  were  the  whispers  silenced  for  ever. 
Had  he  ridden  through  alive  he  earned  distinction 
besides.  But  he  didn't  dare  ;  he  refused  !  Imagine 
it  if  you  can !  He  sat  shaking  on  his  horse  and 
declined.  You  should  have  seen  the  general.  His 
face  turned  the  colour  of  that  Burgundy.  '  No  doubt 
you  have  a  previous  engagement,'  he  said,  in  the 
politest  voice  you  ever  heard  —  just  that,  not  a  word 
of  abuse.  A  previous  engagement  on  the  battle- 
field !  For  the  life  of  me,  I  could  hardly  help  laugh- 
ing. But  it  was  a  tragic  business  for  Wilmington. 
He  was  broken,  of  course,  and  slunk  back  to  London. 
Every  house  was  closed  to  him  ;  he  dropped  out  of 
his  circle  like  a  lead  bullet  you  let  slip  out  of  your 
hand  into  the  sea.  The  very  women  in  Piccadilly 
spat  if  he  spoke  to  them  ;  and  he  blew  his  brains  out 
in  a  back  bedroom  off  the  Haymarket.  Curious  that, 
eh  ?  He  hadn't  the  pluck  to  face  the  bullets  when 
his  name  was  at  stake,  yet  he  could  blow  his  own 
brains  out  afterwards." 


A    CRIMEAN  NIGHT  9 

Lieutenant  Sutch  chanced  to  look  at  the  clock  as 
the  story  came  to  an  end.  It  was  now  a  quarter  to 
one.  Harry  Feversham  had  still  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  furlough,  and  that  quarter  of  an  hour  was 
occupied  by  a  retired  surgeon-general  with  a  great 
wagging  beard,  who  sat  nearly  opposite  to  the  boy. 

"  I  can  tell  you  an  incident  still  more  curious,"  he 
said.  "  The  man  in  this  case  had  never  been  under 
fire  before,  but  he  was  of  my  own  profession.  Life 
and  death  were  part  of  his  business.  Nor  was  he 
really  in  any  particular  danger.  The  affair  happened 
during  a  hill  campaign  in  India.  We  were  encamped 
in  a  valley,  and  a  few  Pathans  used  to  lie  out  on  the 
hillside  at  night  and  take  long  shots  into  the  camp. 
A  bullet  ripped  through  the  canvas  of  the  hospital 
tent  —  that  was  all.  The  surgeon  crept  out  to  his 
own  quarters,  and  his  orderly  discovered  him  half- 
an-hour  afterward  lying  in  his  blood  stone-dead." 

"  Hit  ?  "  exclaimed  the  major. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  the  surgeon.  "  He  had 
quietly  opened  his  instrument-case  in  the  dark,  taken 
out  a  lancet,  and  severed  his  femoral  artery.  Sheer 
panic,  do  you  see,  at  the  whistle  of  a  bullet." 

Even  upon  these  men,  case-hardened  to  horrors, 
the  incident  related  in  its  bald  simplicity  wrought  its 
effect.  From  some  there  broke  a  half-uttered  ex- 
clamation of  disbelief;  others  moved  restlessly  in 
their  chairs  with  a  sort  of  physical  discomfort,  be- 
cause a  man  had  sunk  so  far  below  humanity.  Here 
an  officer  gulped  his  wine,  there  a  second  shook  his 
shoulders  as  though  to  shake  the  knowledge  off  as  a 
dog  shakes  water.  There  was  only  one  in  all  that 
company  who  sat  perfectly  still  in  the  silence  which 


io  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

followed  upon  the  story.  That  one  was  the  boy, 
Harry  Feversham. 

He  sat  with  his  hands  now  clenched  upon  his  knees 
and  leaning  forward  a  little  across  the  table  toward 
the  surgeon,  his  cheeks  white  as  paper,  his  eyes 
burning,  and  burning  with  ferocity.  He  had  the  look 
of  a  dangerous  animal  in  the  trap.  His  body  was 
gathered,  his  muscles  taut.  Sutch  had  a  fear  that 
the  lad  meant  to  leap  across  the  table  and  strike  with 
all  his  strength  in  the  savagery  of  despair.  He  had 
indeed  reached  out  a  restraining  hand  when  General 
Feversham' s  matter-of-fact  voice  intervened,  and  the 
boy's  attitude  suddenly  relaxed. 

"  Queer  incomprehensible  things  happen.  Here 
are  two  of  them.  You  can  only  say  they  are  the 
truth  and  pray  God  you  may  forget  'em.  But  you 
can't  explain,  for  you  can't  understand." 

Sutch  was  moved  to  lay  his  hand  upon  Harry's 
shoulder. 

"  Can  you  ? "  he  asked,  and  regretted  the  question 
almost  before  it  was  spoken.  But  it  was  spoken,  and 
Harry's  eyes  turned  swiftly  toward  Sutch,  and  rested 
upon  his  face,  not,  however,  with  any  betrayal  of  guilt, 
but  quietly,  inscrutably.  Nor  did  he  answer  the  ques- 
tion, although  it  was  answered  in  a  fashion  by  Gen- 
eral Feversham. 

"  Harry  understand  !  "  exclaimed  the  general,  with 
a  snort  of  indignation.  "How  should  he?  He's  a 
Feversham." 

The  question,  which  Harry's  glance  had  mutely  put 
before,  Sutch  in  the  same  mute  way  repeated.  "  Are 
you  blind?"  his  eyes  asked  of  General  Feversham. 
Never  had  he  heard  an  untruth  so  demonstrably  un- 


A    CRIMEAN  NIGHT  n 

true.  A  mere  look  at  the  father  and  the  son  proved 
it  so.  Harry  Feversham  wore  his  father's  name,  but 
he  had  his  mother's  dark  and  haunted  eyes,  his 
mother's  breadth  of  forehead,  his  mother's  delicacy 
of  profile,  his  mother's  imagination.  It  needed  per- 
haps a  stranger  to  recognise  the  truth.  The  father 
had  been  so  long  familiar  with  his  son's  aspect  that 
it  had  no  significance  to  his  mind. 

"  Look  at  the  clock,  Harry." 

The  hour's  furlough  had  run  out.  Harry  rose 
from  his  chair,  and  drew  a  breath. 

"  Good  night,  sir,"  he  said,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

The  servants  had  long  since  gone  to  bed ;  and,  as 
Harry  opened  the  door,  the  hall  gaped  black  like  the 
mouth  of  night.  For  a  second  or  two  the  boy  hesi- 
tated upon  the  threshold,  and  seemed  almost  to  shrink 
back  into  the  lighted  room  as  though  in  that  dark 
void  peril  awaited  him.  And  peril  did  —  the  peril 
of  his  thoughts. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  room  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him.  The  decanter  was  sent  again  upon  its 
rounds ;  there  was  a  popping  of  soda-water  bottles ; 
the  talk  revolved  again  in  its  accustomed  groove. 
Harry  was  in  an  instant  forgotten  by  all  but  Sutch. 
The  lieutenant,  although  he  prided  himself  upon  his 
impartial  and  disinterested  study  of  human  nature, 
was  the  kindliest  of  men.  He  had  more  kindliness 
than  observation  by  a  great  deal.  Moreover,  there 
were  special  reasons  which  caused  him  to  take  an 
interest  in  Harry  Feversham.  He  sat  for  a  little 
while  with  the  air  of  a  man  profoundly  disturbed. 
Then,  acting  upon  an  impulse,  he  went  to  the  door, 
opened  it  noiselessly,  as  noiselessly  passed  out,  and, 


iz  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

without  so  much  as  a  click  of  the  latch,  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

And  this  is  what  he  saw :  Harry  Feversham, 
holding  in  the  centre  of  the  hall  a  lighted  candle  high 
above  his  head,  and  looking  up  toward  the  portraits 
of  the  Fevershams  as  they  mounted  the  walls  and 
were  lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  roof.  A  muffled 
sound  of  voices  came  from  the  other  side  of  the  door 
panels,  but  the  hall  itself  was  silent.  Harry  stood 
remarkably  still,  and  the  only  thing  which  moved  at 
all  was  the  yellow  flame  of  the  candle  as  it  flickered 
apparently  in  some  faint  draught.  The  light  wavered 
across  the  portraits,  glowing  here  upon  a  red  coat, 
glittering  there  upon  a  corselet  of  steel.  For  there 
was  not  one  man's  portrait  upon  the  walls  which  did 
not  glisten  with  the  colours  of  a  uniform,  and  there 
were  the  portraits  of  many  men.  Father  and  son,  the 
Fevershams  had  been  soldiers  from  the  very  birth  of 
the  family.  Father  and  son,  in  lace  collars  and 
bucket  boots,  in  Ramillies  wigs  and  steel  breastplates, 
in  velvet  coats,  with  powder  on  their  hair,  in  shakos 
and  swallow-tails,  in  high  stocks  and  frogged  coats, 
they  looked  down  upon  this  last  Feversham,  summon- 
ing him  to  the  like  service.  They  were  men  of  one 
stamp ;  no  distinction  of  uniform  could  obscure  their 
relationship  —  lean-faced  men,  hard  as  iron,  rugged  in 
feature,  thin-lipped,  with  firm  chins  and  straight,  level 
mouths,  narrow  foreheads,  and  the  steel-blue  inex- 
pressive eyes ;  men  of  courage  and  resolution,  no 
doubt,  but  without  subtleties,  or  nerves,  or  that  bur- 
densome gift  of  imagination  ;  sturdy  men,  a  little 
wanting  in  delicacy,  hardly  conspicuous  for  intellect ; 
to  put  it  frankly,  men  rather  stupid  —  all  of  them,  in 


A    CRIMEAN  NIGHT  13 

a  word,  first-class  fighting  men,  but  not  one  of  them 
a  first-class  soldier. 

But  Harry  Feversham  plainly  saw  none  of  their 
defects.  To  him  they  were  one  and  all  portentous 
and  terrible.  He  stood  before  them  in  the  attitude  of 
a  criminal  before  his  judges,  reading  his  condemna- 
tion in  their  cold  unchanging  eyes.  Lieutenant  Sutch 
understood  more  clearly  why  the  flame  of  the  candle 
flickered.  There  was  no  draught  in  the  hall,  but 
the  boy's  hand  shook.  And  finally,  as  though  he 
heard  the  mute  voices  of  his  judges  delivering  sen- 
tence and  admitted  its  justice,  he  actually  bowed  to 
the  portraits  on  the  wall.  As  he  raised  his  head,  he 
saw  Lieutenant  Sutch  in  the  embrasure  of  the  door- 
way. 

He  did  not  start,  he  uttered  no  word ;  he  let  his 
eyes  quietly  rest  upon  Sutch  and  waited.  Of  the  two 
it  was  the  man  who  was  embarrassed. 

"  Harry,"  he  said,  and  in  spite  of  his  embarrass- 
ment he  had  the  tact  to  use  the  tone  and  the  language 
of  one  addressing  not  a  boy,  but  a  comrade  equal  in 
years,  "we  meet  for  the  first  time  to-night.  But  I 
knew  your  mother  a  long  time  ago.  I  like  to  think 
that  I  have  the  right  to  call  her  by  that  much  misused 
word  'friend.'     Have  you  anything  to  tell  me  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Harry. 

"  The  mere  telling  sometimes  lightens  a  trouble." 

"  It  is  kind  of  you.     There  is  nothing." 

Lieutenant  Sutch  was  rather  at  a  loss.  The  lad's 
loneliness  made  a  strong  appeal  to  him.  For  lonely 
the  boy  could  not  but  be,  set  apart  as  he  was,  no  less 
unmistakably  in  mind  as  in  feature,  from  his  father 
and  his  father's  fathers.    Yet  what  more  could  he  do  ? 


I+  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

His  tact  again  came  to  his  aid.    He  took  his  card-case 
from  his  pocket. 

*  You  will  find  my  address  upon  this  card.  Perhaps 
some  day  you  will  give  me  a  few  days  of  your  com- 
pany. I  can  offer  you  on  my  side  a  day  or  two's 
hunting." 

A  spasm  of  pain  shook  for  a  fleeting  moment  the 
boy's  steady  inscrutable  face.  It  passed,  however, 
swiftly  as  it  had  come. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  Harry  monotonously  repeated. 
"  You  are  very  kind." 

"  And  if  ever  you  want  to  talk  over  a  difficult  ques- 
tion with  an  older  man,  I  am  at  your  service." 

He  spoke  purposely  in  a  formal  voice,  lest  Harry 
with  a  boy's  sensitiveness  should  think  he  laughed. 
Harry  took  the  card  and  repeated  his  thanks.  Then 
he  went  upstairs  to  bed. 

Lieutenant  Sutch  waited  uncomfortably  in  the  hall 
until  the  light  of  the  candle  had  diminished  and  dis- 
appeared. Something  was  amiss,  he  was  very  sure. 
There  were  words  which  he  should  have  spoken  to 
the  boy,  but  he  had  not  known  how  to  set  about  the 
task.  He  returned  to  the  dining  room,  and  with  a 
feeling  that  he  was  almost  repairing  his  omissions,  he 
filled  his  glass  and  called  for  silence. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "this  is  June  15th,"  and 
there  was  great  applause  and  much  rapping  on  the 
table.  "  It  is  the  anniversary  of  our  attack  upon  the 
Redan.  It  is  also  Harry  Feversham's  birthday.  For 
us,  our  work  is  done.  I  ask  you  to  drink  the  health 
of  one  of  the  youngsters  who  are  ousting  us.  His 
work  lies  before  him.  The  traditions  of  the  Fever- 
sham  family  are  very  well  known  to  us.     May  Harry 


A    CRIMEAN  NIGHT  15 

Feversham  carry  them  on  !  May  he  add  distinction 
to  a  distinguished  name  !  " 

At  once  all  that  company  was  on  its  feet. 

"  Harry  Feversham  !  " 

The  name  was  shouted  with  so  hearty  a  good-will 
that  the  glasses  on  the  table  rang.  "  Harry  Fever- 
sham, Harry  Feversham,"  the  cry  was  repeated  and 
repeated,  while  old  General  Feversham  sat  in  his 
chair  with  a  face  aflush  with  pride.  And  a  boy  a 
minute  afterward  in  a  room  high  up  in  the  house 
heard  the  muffled  words  of  a  chorus  — 

For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow, 
For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow, 
For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow, 
And  so  say  all  of  us, 

and  believed  the  guests  upon  this  Crimean  night  were 
drinking  his  father's  health.  He  turned  over  in  his 
bed  and  lay  shivering.  He  saw  in  his  mind  a  broken 
officer  slinking  at  night  in  the  shadows  of  the  London 
streets.  He  pushed  back  the  flap  of  a  tent  and 
stooped  over  a  man  lying  stone-dead  in  his  blood,  with 
an  open  lancet  clinched  in  his  right  hand.  And  he 
saw  that  the  face  of  the  broken  officer  and  the  face  of 
the  dead  surgeon  were  one  —  and  that  one  face,  the 
face  of  Harry  Feversham. 


CHAPTER  II 

CAPTAIN  TRENCH  AND  A  TELEGRAM 

Thirteen  years  later,  and  in  the  same  month  of 
June,  Harry  Feversham's  health  was  drunk  again, 
but  after  a  quieter  fashion  and  in  a  smaller  company. 
The  company  was  gathered  in  a  room  high  up  in  a 
shapeless  block  of  buildings  which  frowns  like  a 
fortress  above  Westminster.  A  stranger  crossing 
St.  James's  Park  southwards,  over  the  suspension 
bridge,  at  night,  who  chanced  to  lift  his  eyes  and 
see  suddenly  the  tiers  of  lighted  windows  towering 
above  him  to  so  precipitous  a  height,  might  be 
brought  to  a  stop  with  the  fancy  that  here  in  the 
heart  of  London  was  a  mountain  and  the  gnomes 
at  work.  Upon  the  tenth  floor  of  this  building 
Harry  had  taken  a  flat  during  his  year's  furlough 
from  his  regiment  in  India ;  and  it  was  in  the  din- 
ing room  of  this  flat  that  the  simple  ceremony  took 
place.  The  room  was  furnished  in  a  dark  and  rest- 
ful fashion ;  and  since  the  chill  of  the  weather  belied 
the  calendar,  a  comfortable  fire  blazed  in  the  hearth. 
A  bay  window,  over  which  the  blinds  had  not  been 
lowered,  commanded  London. 

There  were  four  men  smoking  about  the  dinner- 
table.  Harry  Feversham  was  unchanged,  except 
for  a  fair  moustache,  which  contrasted  with  his  dark 
hair,  and  the  natural  consequences  of  growth.     He 

16 


CAPTAIN   TRENCH  AND   A   TELEGRAM     17 

was  now  a  man  of  middle  height,  long-limbed,  and 
well-knit  like  an  athlete,  but  his  features  had  not 
altered  since  that  night  when  they  had  been  so 
closely  scrutinised  by  Lieutenant  Sutch.  Of  his 
companions  two  were  brother-officers  on  leave  in 
England,  like  himself,  whom  he  had  that  afternoon 
picked  up  at  his  club,  —  Captain  Trench,  a  small 
man,  growing  bald,  with  a  small,  sharp,  resourceful 
face  and  black  eyes  of  a  remarkable  activity,  and 
Lieutenant  Willoughby,  an  officer  of  quite  a  different 
stamp.  A  round  forehead,  a  thick  snub  nose,  and  a 
pair  of  vacant  and  protruding  eyes  gave  to  him  an 
aspect  of  invincible  stupidity.  He  spoke  but  seldom, 
and  never  to  the  point,  but  rather  to  some  point  long 
forgotten  which  he  had  since  been  laboriously  revolv- 
ing in  his  mind ;  and  he  continually  twisted  a  mous- 
tache, of  which  the  ends  curled  up  toward  his  eyes 
with  a  ridiculous  ferocity,  —  a  man  whom  one  would 
dismiss  from  mind  as  of  no  consequence  upon  a  first 
thought,  and  take  again  into  one's  consideration  upon 
a  second.  For  he  was  born  stubborn  as  well  as 
stupid;  and  the  harm  which  his  stupidity  might 
do,  his  stubbornness  would  hinder  him  from  admit- 
ting. He  was  not  a  man  to  be  persuaded ;  having 
few  ideas,  he  clung  to  them.  It  was  no  use  to  argue 
with  him,  for  he  did  not  hear  the  argument,  but 
behind  his  vacant  eyes  all  the  while  he  turned 
over  his  crippled  thoughts  and  was  satisfied.  The 
fourth  at  the  table  was  Durrance,  a  lieutenant  of  the 
East  Surrey  Regiment,  and  Feversham's  friend,  who 
had  come  in  answer  to  a  telegram. 

This  was  June  of  the  year  1882,  and  the  thoughts 
of  civilians  turned  toward  Egypt  with  anxiety  ;  those 
c 


y 


1 8  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

of  soldiers,  with  an  eager  anticipation.  Arabi  Pasha, 
in  spite  of  threats,  was  steadily  strengthening  the 
fortifications  of  Alexandria,  and  already  a  long  way 
to  the  south,  the  other,  the  great  danger,  was  swell- 
ing like  a  thunder-cloud.  A  year  had  passed  since 
a  young,  slight,  and  tall  Dongolawi,  Mohammed 
Ahmed,  had  marched  through  the  villages  of  the 
White  Nile,  preaching  with  the  fire  of  a  Wesley  the 
coming  of  a  Saviour.  The  passionate  victims  of 
the  Turkish  tax-gatherer  had  listened,  had  heard 
the  promise  repeated  in  the  whispers  of  the  wind 
in  the  withered  grass,  had  found  the  holy  names 
imprinted  even  upon  the  eggs  they  gathered  up. 
In  1882  Mohammed  had  declared  himself  that 
Saviour,  and  had  won  his  first  battles  against  the 
Turks. 

"  There  will  be  trouble,"  said  Trench,  and  the  sen- 
tence was  the  text  on  which  three  of  the  four  men 
talked.  In  a  rare  interval,  however,  the  fourth, 
Harry  Feversham,  spoke  upon  a  different  subject. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  were  all  able  to  dine  with  me 
to-night.  I  telegraphed  to  Castleton  as  well,  an 
officer  of  ours,"  he  explained  to  Durrance,  "but  he 
was  dining  with  a  big  man  in  the  War  Office,  and 
leaves  for  Scotland  afterwards,  so  that  he  could  not 
come.     I  have  news  of  a  sort." 

The  three  men  leaned  forward,  their  minds  still 
full  of  the  dominant  subject.  But  it  was  not  about 
the  prospect  of  war  that  Harry  Feversham  had  news 
to  speak. 

"  I  only  reached  London  this  morning  from  Dub- 
lin," he  said  with  a  shade  of  embarrassment.  "  I 
have  been  some  weeks  in  Dublin." 


CAPTAIN   TRENCH  AND   A   TELEGRAM     19 

Durrance  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  tablecloth  and 
looked  quietly  at  his  friend. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  asked  steadily. 

"I  have  come  back  engaged  to  be  married." 

Durrance  lifted  his  glass  to  his  lips. 

"Well,  here's  luck  to  you,  Harry,"  he  said,  and 
that  was  all.  The  wish,  indeed,  was  almost  curtly 
expressed,  but  there  was  nothing  wanting  in  it  to 
Feversham's  ears.  The  friendship  between  these 
two  men  was  not  one  in  which  affectionate  phrases 
had  any  part.  There  was,  in  truth,  no  need  of  such. 
Both  men  were  securely  conscious  of  it ;  they  esti- 
mated it  at  its  true,  strong  value;  it  was  a  helpful 
instrument,  which  would  not  wear  out,  put  into  their 
hands  for  a  hard,  lifelong  use;  but  it  was  not,  and 
never  had  been,  spoken  of  between  them.  Both  men 
were  grateful  for  it,  as  for  a  rare  and  undeserved 
gift ;  yet  both  knew  that  it  might  entail  an  obligation 
of  sacrifice.  But  the  sacrifices,  were  they  needful, 
would  be  made,  and  they  would  not  be  mentioned. 
It  may  be,  indeed,  that  the  very  knowledge  of  their 
friendship's  strength  constrained  them  to  a  particular 
reticence  in  their  words  to  one  another. 

"Thank  you,  Jack!"  said  Feversham.  "I  am 
glad  of  your  good  wishes.  It  was  you  who  intro- 
duced me  to  Ethne;  I  cannot  forget  it." 

Durrance  set  his  glass  down  without  any  haste. 
There  followed  a  moment  of  silence,  during  which  he 
sat  with  his  eyes  upon  the  tablecloth,  and  his  hands 
resting  on  the  table  edge. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  in  a  level  voice.  "  I  did  you  a 
good  turn  then." 

He  seemed  on  the  point  of  saying  more,  and  doubt- 


20  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

ful  how  to  say  it.  But  Captain  Trench's  sharp,  quick, 
practical  voice,  a  voice  which  fitted  the  man  who 
spoke,  saved  him  his  pains. 

"  Will  this  make  any  difference  ? "  asked  Trench. 

Feversham  replaced  his  cigar  between  his  lips. 

"  You  mean,  shall  I  leave  the  service  ? "  he  asked 
slowly.  "  I  don't  know ;  "  and  Durrance  seized  the 
opportunity  to  rise  from  the  table  and  cross  to  the 
window,  where  he  stood  with  his  back  to  his  com- 
panions. Feversham  took  the  abrupt  movement  for 
a  reproach,  and  spoke  to  Durrance's  back,  not  to 
Trench. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  repeated.  "  It  will  need  thought. 
There  is  much  to  be  said.  On  the  one  side,  of  course, 
there's  my  father,  my  career,  such  as  it  is.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  is  her  father,  Dermod  Eustace." 

"  He  wishes  you  to  chuck  your  commission  ? " 
asked  Willoughby. 

"  He  has  no  doubt  the  Irishman's  objection  to  con- 
stituted authority,"  said  Trench,  with  a  laugh.  "  But 
need  you  subscribe  to  it,  Feversham  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  merely  that."  It  was  still  to  Durrance's 
back  that  he  addressed  his  excuses.  "  Dermod  is  old, 
his  estates  are  going  to  ruin,  and  there  are  other  things. 
You  know,  Jack  ?  "  The  direct  appeal  he  had  to  re- 
peat, and  even  then  Durrance  answered  it  absently  :  — 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  and  he  added,  like  one  quoting  a 
catch-word.  "  If  you  want  any  whiskey,  rap  twice  on 
the  floor  with  your  foot.     The  servants  understand." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Feversham.  He  continued,  care- 
fully weighing  his  words,  and  still  intently  looking 
across  the  shoulders  of  his  companions  to  his  friend : — 

"  Besides,   there   is   Ethne    herself.     Dermod   for 


CAPTAIN   TRENCH  AND   A   TELEGRAM     21 

once  did  an  appropriate  thing  when  he  gave  her  that 
name.  For  she  is  of  her  country,  and  more,  of  her 
county.  She  has  the  love  of  it  in  her  bones.  I  do 
not  think  that  she  could  be  quite  happy  in  India,  or 
indeed  in  any  place  which  was  not  within  reach  of  Don- 
egal, the  smell  of  its  peat,  its  streams,  and  the  brown 
friendliness  of  its  hills.     One  has  to  consider  that." 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  and  getting  none  went 
on  again.  Durrance,  however,  had  no  thought  of 
reproach  in  his  mind.  He  knew  that  Feversham  was 
speaking,  —  he  wished  very  much  that  he  would  con- 
tinue to  speak  for  a  little  while,  —  but  he  paid  no 
heed  to  what  was  said.  He  stood  looking  steadfastly 
out  of  the  windows.  Over  against  him  was  the  glare 
from  Pall  Mall  striking  upward  to  the  sky,  and  the 
chains  of  light  banked  one  above  the  other  as  the 
town  rose  northward,  and  a  rumble  as  of  a  million 
carriages  was  in  his  ears.  At  his  feet,  very  far  below, 
lay  St.  James's  Park,  silent  and  black,  a  quiet  pool  of 
darkness  in  the  midst  of  glitter  and  noise.  Durrance 
had  a  great  desire  to  escape  out  of  this  room  into  its 
secrecy.  But  that  he  could  not  do  without  remark. 
Therefore  he  kept  his  back  turned  to  his  companion 
and  leaned  his  forehead  against  the  window,  and 
hoped  his  friend  would  continue  to  talk.  For  he  was 
face  to  face  with  one  of  the  sacrifices  which  must  not 
be  mentioned,  and  which  no  sign  must  betray. 

Feversham  did  continue,  and  if  Durrance  did  not 
listen,  on  the  other  hand  Captain  Trench  gave  to  him 
his  closest  attention.  But  it  was  evident  that  Harry 
Feversham  was  giving  reasons  seriously  considered. 
He  was  not  making  excuses,  and  in  the  end  Captain 
Trench  was  satisfied. 


22  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"Well,  I  drink  to  you,  Feversham,"  he  said,  "with 
all  the  proper  sentiments." 

"  I  too,  old  man,"  said  Willoughby,  obediently 
following  his  senior's  lead. 

Thus  they  drank  their  comrade's  health,  and  as 
their  empty  glasses  rattled  on  the  table,  there  came 
a  knock  upon  the  door. 

The  two  officers  looked  up.  Durrance  turned 
about  from  the  window.  Feversham  said,  "  Come 
in ; "  and  his  servant  brought  in  to  him  a  telegram. 

Feversham  tore  open  the  envelope  carelessly,  as 
carelessly  read  through  the  telegram,  and  then  sat 
very  still,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  slip  of  pink  paper 
and  his  face  grown  at  once  extremely  grave.  Thus 
he  sat  for  an  appreciable  time,  not  so  much  stunned 
as  thoughtful.  And  in  the  room  there  was  a  com- 
plete silence.  Feversham's  three  guests  averted  their 
eyes.  Durrance  turned  again  to  his  window;  Wil- 
loughby twisted  his  moustache  and  gazed  intently 
upward  at  the  ceiling ;  Captain  Trench  shifted  his 
chair  round  and  stared  into  the  glowing  fire,  and  each 
man's  attitude  expressed  a  certain  suspense.  It 
seemed  that  sharp  upon  the  heels  of  Feversham's 
good  news  calamity  had  come  knocking  at  the  door. 

"There  is  no  answer,"  said  Harry,  and  fell  to 
silence  again.  Once  he  raised  his  head  and  looked 
at  Trench  as  though  he  had  a  mind  to  speak.  But 
he  thought  the  better  of  it,  and  so  dropped  again  to 
the  consideration  of  this  message.  And  in  a  moment 
or  two  the  silence  was  sharply  interrupted,  but  not  by 
any  one  of  the  expectant  motionless  three  men  seated 
within  the  room.    The  interruption  came  from  without. 

From  the  parade  ground  of  Wellington  Barracks 


CAPTAIN   TRENCH  AND   A   TELEGRAM     23 

the  drums  and  fifes  sounding  the  tattoo  shrilled 
through  the  open  window  with  a  startling  clearness 
like  a  sharp  summons,  and  diminished  as  the  band 
marched  away  across  the  gravel  and  again  grew  loud. 
Feversham  did  not  change  his  attitude,  but  the  look 
upon  his  face  was  now  that  of  a  man  listening,  and 
listening  thoughtfully,  just  as  he  had  read  thought- 
fully. In  the  years  which  followed,  that  moment 
was  to  recur  again  and  again  to  the  recollection  of 
each  of  Harry's  three  guests.  The  lighted  room, 
with  the  bright  homely  fire,  the  open  window  over- 
looking the  myriad  lamps  of  London,  Harry  Fever- 
sham  seated  with  the  telegram  spread  before  him,  the 
drums  and  fifes  calling  loudly,  and  then  dwindling  to 
music  very  small  and  pretty  —  music  which  beckoned 
where  a  moment  ago  it  had  commanded :  all  these 
details  made  up  a  picture  of  which  the  colours  were 
not  to  fade  by  any  lapse  of  time,  although  its  signifi- 
cance was  not  apprehended  now. 

It  was  remembered  that  Feversham  rose  abruptly 
from  his  chair,  just  before  the  tattoo  ceased.  He 
crumpled  the  telegram  loosely  in  his  hands,  tossed  it 
into  the  fire,  and  then,  leaning  his  back  against  the 
chimney-piece  and  upon  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  said 
again :  — 

"  I  don't  know ; "  as  though  he  had  thrust  that 
message,  whatever  it  might  be,  from  his  mind,  and 
was  summing  up  in  this  indefinite  way  the  argument 
which  had  gone  before.  Thus  that  long  silence  was 
broken,  and  a  spell  was  lifted.  But  the  fire  took  hold 
upon  the  telegram  and  shook  it,  so  that  it  moved  like 
a  thing  alive  and  in  pain.  It  twisted,  and  part  of  it 
unrolled,  and  for  a  second  lay  open  and  smooth  of 


24  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

creases,  lit  up  by  the  flame  and  as  yet  untouched  ;  so 
that  two  or  three  words  sprang,  as  it  were,  out  of  a 
yellow  glare  of  fire  and  were  legible.  Then  the  flame 
seized  upon  that  smooth  part  too,  and  in  a  moment 
shrivelled  it  into  black  tatters.  But  Captain  Trench 
was  all  this  while  staring  into  the  fire. 

"  You  return  to  Dublin,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Durrance. 
He  had  moved  back  again  into  the  room.  Like  his 
companions,  he  was  conscious  of  an  unexplained 
relief. 

"  To  Dublin  ?  No  ;  I  go  to  Donegal  in  three  weeks' 
time.  There  is  to  be  a  dance.  It  is  hoped  you  will 
come." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  manage  it.  There  is 
just  a  chance,  I  believe,  should  trouble  come  in  the 
East,  that  I  may  go  out  on  the  staff."  The  talk 
thus  came  round  again  to  the  chances  of  peace  and 
war,  and  held  in  that  quarter  till  the  boom  of  the 
Westminster  clock  told  that  the  hour  was  eleven. 
Captain  Trench  rose  from  his  seat  on  the  last  stroke ; 
Willoughby  and  Durrance  followed  his  example. 

"  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow,"  said  Durrance  to 
Feversham. 

"As  usual,"  replied  Harry;  and  his  three  guests 
descended  from  his  rooms  and  walked  across  the 
Park  together.  At  the  corner  of  Pall  Mall,  however, 
they  parted  company,  Durrance  mounting  St.  James's 
Street,  while  Trench  and  Willoughby  crossed  the  road 
into  St.  James's  Square.  There  Trench  slipped  his 
arm  through  Willoughby's,  to  Willoughby's  surprise, 
for  Trench  was  an  undemonstrative  man. 

"  You  know  Castleton's  address  ? "  he  asked. 

"Albemarle  Street,"  Willoughby  answered,  and 
added  the  number. 


CAPTAIN   TRENCH  AND   A   TELEGRAM    25 

"  He  leaves  Euston  at  twelve  o'clock.  It  is  now  ten 
minutes  past  eleven.  Are  you  curious,  Willoughby  ? 
I  confess  to  curiosity.  I  am  an  inquisitive  methodi- 
cal person,  and  when  a  man  gets  a  telegram  bidding 
him  tell  Trench  something  and  he  tells  Trench  noth- 
ing, I  am  curious  as  a  philosopher  to  know  what  that 
something  is !  Castleton  is  the  only  other  officer  of 
our  regiment  in  London.  It  is  likely,  therefore,  that 
the  telegram  came  from  Castleton.  Castleton,  too, 
was  dining  with  a  big  man  from  the  War  Office.  I 
think  that  if  we  take  a  hansom  to  Albemarle  Street, 
we  shall  just  catch  Castleton  upon  his  doorstep." 

Mr.  Willoughby,  who  understood  very  little  of 
Trench's  meaning,  nevertheless  cordially  agreed  to  the 
proposal. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  prudent,"  said  he,  and  he  hailed 
a  passing  cab.  A  moment  later  the  two  men  were 
driving  to  Albemarle  Street. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE    LAST    RIDE    TOGETHER 

Durrance,  meanwhile,  walked  to  his  lodging  alone, 
remembering  a  day,  now  two  years  since,  when  by  a 
curious  whim  of  old  Dermod  Eustace  he  had  been 
fetched  against  his  will  to  the  house  by  the  Lennon 
River  in  Donegal,  and  there,  to  his  surprise,  had  been 
made  acquainted  with  Dermod's  daughter  Ethne.  For 
she  surprised  all  who  had  first  held  speech  with  the 
father.  Durrance  had  stayed  for  a  night  in  the  house, 
and  through  that  evening  she  had  played  upon  her 
violin,  seated  with  her  back  toward  her  audience,  as  was 
her  custom  when  she  played,  lest  a  look  or  a  gesture 
should  interrupt  the  concentration  of  her  thoughts. 
The  melodies  which  she  had  played  rang  in  his  ears 
now.  For  the  girl  possessed  the  gift  of  music,  and 
the  strings  of  her  violin  spoke  to  the  questions  of  her 
bow.  There  was  in  particular  an  overture  —  the 
Melusine  overture  —  which  had  the  very  sob  of  the 
waves.  Durrance  had  listened  wondering,  for  the  vio- 
lin had  spoken  to  him  of  many  things  of  which  the 
girl  who  played  it  could  know  nothing.  It  had  spoken 
of  long  perilous  journeys  and  the  faces  of  strange 
countries ;  of  the  silver  way  across  moonlit  seas ;  of 
the  beckoning  voices  from  the  under  edges  of  the  des- 
ert. It  had  taken  a  deeper,  a  more  mysterious  tone. 
It  had  told  of  great  joys,  quite  unattainable,  and  of 

26 


THE   LAST  RIDE    TOGETHER  27 

great  griefs  too,  eternal,  and  with  a  sort  of  nobility 
by  reason  of  their  greatness ;  and  of  many  unformu- 
lated longings  beyond  the  reach  of  words;  but  with 
never  a  single  note  of  mere  complaint.  So  it  had 
seemed  to  Durrance  that  night  as  he  had  sat  listening 
while  Ethne's  face  was  turned  away.  So  it  seemed 
to  him  now  when  he  knew  that  her  face  was  still  to 
be  turned  away  for  all  his  days.  He  had  drawn  a 
thought  from  her  playing  which  he  was  at  some  pains 
to  keep  definite  in  his  mind.  The  true  music  cannot 
complain. 

Therefore  it  was  that  as  he  rode  the  next  morning 
into  the  Row  his  blue  eyes  looked  out  upon  the  world 
from  his  bronzed  face  with  not  a  jot  less  of  his  usual 
friendliness.  He  waited  at  half-past  nine  by  the 
clump  of  lilacs  and  laburnums  at  the  end  of  the  sand, 
but  Harry  Feversham  did  not  join  him  that  morning, 
nor  indeed  for  the  next  three  weeks.  Ever  since  the 
two  men  had  graduated  from  Oxford  it  had  been  their 
custom  to  meet  at  this  spot  and  hour,  when  both 
chanced  to  be  in  town,  and  Durrance  was  puzzled. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  lost  his  friend  as  well. 

Meanwhile,  however,  the  rumours  of  war  grew  to  a 
certainty ;  and  when  at  last  Feversham  kept  the  tryst, 
Durrance  had  news. 

"  I  told  you  luck  might  look  my  way.  Well,  she 
has.  I  go  out  to  Egypt  on  General  Graham's  staff. 
There's  talk  we  may  run  down  the  Red  Sea  to  Suakin 
afterward." 

The  exhilaration  of  his  voice  brought  an  unmistak- 
able envy  into  Feversham's  eyes.  It  seemed  strange 
to  Durrance,  even  at  that  moment  of  his  good  luck, 
that  Harry  Feversham   should   envy  him  — strange 


28  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

and  rather  pleasant.     But  he  interpreted  the  envy  in 
the  light  of  his  own  ambitions. 

"  It  is  rough  on  you,"  he  said  sympathetically, 
"that  your  regiment  has  to  stay  behind." 

Feversham  rode  by  his  friend's  side  in  silence. 
Then,  as  they  came  to  the  chairs  beneath  the  trees, 
he  said :  — 

"  That  was  expected.  The  day  you  dined  with  me 
I  sent  in  my  papers." 

"  That  night  ? "  said  Durrance,  turning  in  his  sad- 
dle.    "  After  we  had  gone  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Feversham,  accepting  the  correction. 
He  wondered  whether  it  had  been  intended.  But 
Durrance  rode  silently  forward.  Again  Harry  Fever- 
sham was  conscious  of  a  reproach  in  his  friend's 
silence,  and  again  he  was  wrong.  For  Durrance  sud- 
denly spoke  heartily,  and  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  remember.  You  gave  us  your  reasons  that 
night.  But  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  help  wishing 
that  we  had  been  going  out  together.  When  do  you 
leave  for  Ireland  ?  " 

"To-night." 

"  So  soon  ?  " 

They  turned  their  horses  and  rode  westward  again 
down  the  alley  of  trees.  The  morning  was  still  fresh. 
The  limes  and  chestnuts  had  lost  nothing  of  their 
early  green,  and  since  the  May  was  late  that  year, 
its  blossoms  still  hung  delicately  white  like  snow 
upon  the  branches  and  shone  red  against  the  dark 
rhododendrons.  The  park  shimmered  in  a  haze  of 
sunlight,  and  the  distant  roar  of  the  streets  was  as 
the  tumbling  of  river  water. 

"It  is  a  long  time  since  we  bathed  in  Sanford 
Lasher,"  said  Durrance. 


THE   LAST  RIDE    TOGETHER 


29 


"  Or  froze  in  the  Easter  vacations  in  the  big  snow- 
gully  on  Great  End,"  returned  Feversham.  Both 
men  had  the  feeling  that  on  this  morning  a  volume 
in  their  book  of  life  was  ended;  and  since  the  volume 
had  been  a  pleasant  one  to  read,  and  they  did  not 
know  whether  its  successors  would  sustain  its  prom- 
ise, they  were  looking  backward  through  the  leaves 
before  they  put  it  finally  away. 

"You  must  stay  with  us,  Jack,  when  you  come 
back,"  said  Feversham. 

Durrance  had  schooled  himself  not  to  wince,  and 
he  did  not,  even  at  that  anticipatory  "  us."  If  his  left 
hand  tightened  upon  the  thongs  of  his  reins,  the  sign 
could  not  be  detected  by  his  friend. 

"  If  I  come  back,"  said  Durrance.  "  You  know 
my  creed.  I  could  never  pity  a  man  who  died  on 
active  service.  I  would  very  much  like  to  come  by 
that  end  myself." 

It  was  a  quite  simple  creed,  consistent  with  the 
simplicity  of  the  man  who  uttered  it.  It  amounted 
to  no  more  than  this  :  that  to  die  decently  was  worth 
a  good  many  years  of  life.  So  that  he  uttered  it 
without  melancholy  or  any  sign  of  foreboding.  Even 
so,  however,  he  had  a  fear  that  perhaps  his  friend 
might  place  another  interpretation  upon  the  words, 
and  he  looked  quickly  into  his  face.  He  only  saw 
again,  however,  that  puzzling  look  of  envy  in  Fever- 
sham's  eyes. 

"  You  see  there  are  worse  things  which  can  hap- 
pen," he  continued ;  "  disablement,  for  instance. 
Clever  men  could  make  a  shift,  perhaps,  to  put  up 
with  it.  But  what  in  the  world  should  I  do  if  I  had 
to  sit  in  a  chair  all  my  days  ?     It  makes  me  shiver  to 


30  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

think  of  it,"  and  he  shook  his  broad  shoulders  to 
unsaddle  that  fear.  "  Well,  this  is  the  last  ride.  Let 
us  gallop,"  and  he  let  out  his  horse. 

Feversham  followed  his  example,  and  side  by  side 
they  went  racing  down  the  sand.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  Row  they  stopped,  shook  hands,  and  with  the 
curtest  of  nods  parted.  Feversham  rode  out  of  the 
park,  Durrance  turned  back  and  walked  his  horse  up 
toward  the  seats  beneath  the  trees. 

Even  as  a  boy  in  his  home  at  Southpool  in  Devon- 
shire, upon  a  wooded  creek  of  the  Salcombe  estuary, 
he  had  always  been  conscious  of  a  certain  restlessness, 
a  desire  to  sail  down  that  creek  and  out  over  the  levels 
of  the  sea,  a  dream  of  queer  outlandish  countries  and 
peoples  beyond  the  dark  familiar  woods.  And  the 
restlessness  had  grown  upon  him,  so  that  "  Guessens," 
even  when  he  had  inherited  it  with  its  farms  and 
lands,  had  remained  always  in  his  thoughts  as  a 
place  to  come  home  to  rather  than  an  estate  to 
occupy  a  life.  He  purposely  exaggerated  that  rest- 
lessness now,  and  purposely  set  against  it  words 
which  Feversham  had  spoken  and  which  he  knew  to 
be  true.  Ethne  Eustace  would  hardly  be  happy  out- 
side her  county  of  Donegal.  Therefore,  even  had 
things  fallen  out  differently,  as  he  phrased  it,  there 
might  have  been  a  clash.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well 
that  Harry  Feversham  was  to  marry  Ethne  —  and 
not  another  than  Feversham. 

Thus,  at  all  events,  he  argued  as  he  rode,  until  the 
riders  vanished  from  before  his  eyes,  and  the  ladies 
in  their  coloured  frocks  beneath  the  cool  of  the  trees. 
The  trees  themselves  dwindled  to  ragged  mimosas, 
the  brown  sand  at  his  feet  spread  out  in  a  widening 


THE   LAST  RIDE    TOGETHER  31 

circumference  and  took  the  bright  colour  of  honey ; 
and  upon  the  empty  sand  black  stones  began  to  heap 
themselves  shapelessly  like  coal,  and  to  flash  in  the 
sun  like  mirrors.  He  was  deep  in  his  anticipations 
of  the  Soudan,  when  he  heard  his  name  called  out 
softly  in  a  woman's  voice,  and,  looking  up,  found 
himself  close  by  the  rails. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Adair  ? "  said  he,  and  he 
stopped  his  horse.  Mrs.  Adair  gave  him  her  hand 
across  the  rails.  She  was  Durrance's  neighbour  at 
Southpool,  and  by  a  year  or  two  his  elder  —  a  tall 
woman,  remarkable  for  the  many  shades  of  her  thick 
brown  hair  and  the  peculiar  pallor  on  her  face.  But 
at  this  moment  the  face  had  brightened,  there  was  a 
hint  of  colour  in  the  cheeks. 

"  I  have  news  for  you,"  said  Durrance.  "  Two 
special  items.  One,  Harry  Feversham  is  to  be 
married." 

"  To  whom?  "  asked  the  lady,  eagerly. 

"  You  should  know.  It  was  in  your  house  in  Hill 
Street  that  Harry  first  met  her ;  and  I  introduced 
him.  He  has  been  improving  the  acquaintance  in 
Dublin." 

But  Mrs.  Adair  already  understood ;  and  it  was 
plain  that  the  news  was  welcome. 

"  Ethne  Eustace ! "  she  cried.  "  They  will  be 
married  soon  ? " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  it." 

"  I  am  glad,"  and  the  lady  sighed  as  though  with 
relief.     "  What  is  your  second  item  ?  " 

"  As  good  as  the  first.  I  go  out  on  General  Graham's 
staff." 

Mrs.   Adair   was   silent.     There   came  a  look   of 


32  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

anxiety  into  her  eyes,  and  the  colour  died  out  of 
her  face. 

"  You  are  very  glad,  I  suppose,"  she  said  slowly. 

Durrance's  voice  left  her  in  no  doubt. 

"  I  should  think  I  was.  I  go  soon,  too,  and  the 
sooner  the  better.  I  will  come  and  dine  some  night, 
if  I  may,  before  I  go." 

"  My  husband  will  be  pleased  to  see  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Adair,  rather  coldly.  Durrance  did  not  notice 
the  coldness,  however.  He  had  his  own  reasons  for 
making  the  most  of  the  opportunity  which  had  come 
his  way ;  and  he  urged  his  enthusiasm,  and  laid  it 
bare  in  words  more  for  his  own  benefit  than  with 
any  thought  of  Mrs.  Adair.  Indeed,  he  had  always 
rather  a  vague  impression  of  the  lady.  She  was 
handsome  in  a  queer,  foreign  way  not  so  uncommon 
along  the  coasts  of  Devonshire  and  Cornwall,  and  she 
had  good  hair,  and  was  always  well  dressed.  More- 
over, she  was  friendly.  And  at  that  point  Durrance's 
knowledge  of  her  came  to  an  end.  Perhaps  her  chief 
merit  in  his  eyes  was  that  she  had  made  friends  with 
Ethne  Eustace.  But  he  was  to  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  Mrs.  Adair.  He  rode  away  from  the 
park  with  the  old  regret  in  his  mind  that  the  fortunes 
of  himself  and  his  friend  were  this  morning  finally 
severed.  As  a  fact  he  had  that  morning  set  the 
strands  of  a  new  rope  a-weaving  which  was  to  bring 
them  together  again  in  a  strange  and  terrible  relation- 
ship. Mrs.  Adair  followed  him  out  of  the  park,  and 
walked  home  very  thoughtfully. 

Durrance  had  just  one  week  wherein  to  provide  his 
equipment  and  arrange  his  estate  in  Devonshire.  It 
passed  in  a  continuous  hurry  of  preparation,  so  that 


THE    LAST  RIDE    TOGETHER  33 

Ms  newspaper  lay  each  day  unfolded  in  his  rooms. 
The  general  was  to  travel  overland  to  Brindisi ;  and 
so  on  an  evening  of  wind  and  rain,  toward  the  end 
of  July,  Durrance  stepped  from  the  Dover  pier  into 
the  mail-boat  for  Calais.  In  spite  of  the  rain  and 
the  gloomy  night,  a  small  crowd  had  gathered  to 
give  the  general  a  send-off.  As  the  ropes  were  cast 
off,  a  feeble  cheer  was  raised ;  and  before  the  cheer 
had  ended,  Durrance  found  himself  beset  by  a  strange 
illusion.  He  was  leaning  upon  the  bulwarks,  idly 
wondering  whether  this  was  his  last  view  of  England, 
and  with  a  wish  that  some  one  of  his  friends  had 
come  down  to  see  him  go,  when  it  seemed  to  him 
suddenly  that  his  wish  was  answered  ;  for  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  man  standing  beneath  a  gas-lamp,  and 
that  man  was  of  the  stature  and  wore  the  likeness  of 
Harry  Feversham.  Durrance  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
looked  again.  But  the  wind  made  the  tongue  of  light 
flicker  uncertainly  within  the  glass ;  the  rain,  too, 
blurred  the  quay.  He  could  only  be  certain  that  a  man 
was  standing  there,  he  could  only  vaguely  distinguish 
beneath  the  lamp  the  whiteness  of  a  face.  It  was  an 
illusion,  he  said  to  himself.  Harry  Feversham  was 
at  that  moment  most  likely  listening  to  Ethne  playing 
the  violin  under  a  clear  sky  in  a  high  garden  of 
Donegal.  But  even  as  he  was  turning  from  the  bul- 
warks, there  came  a  lull  of  the  wind,  the  lights  burned 
bright  and  steady  on  the  pier,  and  the  face  leaped 
from  the  shadows  distinct  in  feature  and  expression. 
Durrance  leaned  out  over  the  side  of  the  boat. 

"  Harry !  "  he  shouted,  at  the  top  of  a  wondering 
voice. 

But  the   figure   beneath   the   lamp   never   stirred. 


34  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

The  wind  blew  the  lights  again  this  way  and  that, 
the  paddles  churned  the  water,  the  mail-boat  passed 
beyond  the  pier.  It  was  an  illusion,  he  repeated ;  it 
was  a  coincidence.  It  was  the  face  of  a  stranger 
very  like  to  Harry  Feversham's.  It  could  not  be 
Feversham's,  because  the  face  which  Durrance  had 
seen  so  distinctly  for  a  moment  was  a  haggard,  wist- 
ful face  —  a  face  stamped  with  an  extraordinary 
misery ;  the  face  of  a  man  cast  out  from  among  his 
fellows. 

Durrance  had  been  very  busy  all  that  week.  He 
had  clean  forgotten  the  arrival  of  that  telegram  and 
the  suspense  which  the  long  perusal  of  it  had  caused. 
Moreover,  his  newspaper  had  lain  unfolded  in  his 
rooms.  But  his  friend  Harry  Feversham  had  come 
to  see  him  off. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  BALL  AT  LENNON  HOUSE 

Yet  Feversham  had  travelled  to  Dublin  by  the 
night  mail  after  his  ride  with  Durrance  in  the  Row. 
He  had  crossed  Lough  Swilly  on  the  following  fore- 
noon by  a  little  cargo  steamer,  which  once  a  week 
steamed  up  the  Lennon  River  as  far  as  Ramelton. 
On  the  quay-side  Ethne  was  waiting  for  him  in  her 
dog-cart ;  she  gave  him  the  hand  and  the  smile  of  a 
comrade. 

"You  are  surprised  to  see  me,"  said  she,  noting 
the  look  upon  his  face. 

"  I  always  am,"  he  replied.  "  For  always  you 
exceed  my  thoughts  of  you ;  "  and  the  smile  changed 
upon  her  face  —  it  became  something  more  than  the 
smile  of  a  comrade. 

"  I  shall  drive  slowly,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  his  traps 
had  been  packed  into  the  cart ;  "  I  brought  no  groom 
on  purpose.  There  will  be  guests  coming  to-morrow. 
We  have  only  to-day." 

She  drove  along  the  wide  causeway  by  the  river- 
side, and  turned  up  the  steep,  narrow  street.  Fever- 
sham  sat  silently  by  her  side.  It  was  his  first  visit  to 
Ramelton,  and  he  gazed  about  him,  noting  the  dark 
thicket  of  tall  trees  which  climbed  on  the  far  side  of 
the  river,  the  old  grey  bridge,  the  noise  of  the  water 
above  it  as  it  sang  over  shallows,  and  the  drowsy 

35 


36  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

quiet  of  the  town,  with  a  great  curiosity  and  almost 
a  pride  of  ownership,  since  it  was  here  that  Ethne 
lived,  and  all  these  things  were  part  and  parcel  of 
her  life. 

She  was  at  that  time  a  girl  of  twenty-one,  tall, 
strong,  and  supple  of  limb,  and  with  a  squareness  of 
shoulder  proportionate  to  her  height.  She  had  none 
of  that  exaggerated  slope  which  our  grandmothers 
esteemed,  yet  she  lacked  no  grace  of  womanhood  on 
that  account,  and  in  her  walk  she  was  light-footed  as 
a  deer.  Her  hair  was  dark  brown,  and  she  wore  it 
coiled  upon  the  nape  of  her  neck ;  a  bright  colour 
burned  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes,  of  a  very  clear 
grey,  met  the  eyes  of  those  to  whom  she  talked  with 
a  most  engaging  frankness.  And  in  character  she 
was  the  counterpart  of  her  looks.  She  was  honest ; 
she  had  a  certain  simplicity,  the  straightforward  sim- 
plicity of  strength  which  comprises  much  gentleness 
and  excludes  violence.  Of  her  courage  there  is  a 
story  still  told  in  Ramelton,  which  Feversham  could 
never  remember  without  a  thrill  of  wonder.  She  had 
stopped  at  a  door  on  that  steep  hill  leading  down  to 
the  river,  and  the  horse  which  she  was  driving  took 
fright  at  the  mere  clatter  of  a  pail  and  bolted.  The 
reins  were  lying  loose  at  the  moment ;  they  fell  on 
the  ground  before  Ethne  could  seize  them.  She  was 
thus  seated  helpless  in  the  dog-cart,  and  the  horse 
was  tearing  down  to  where  the  road  curves  sharply 
over  the  bridge.  The  thing  which  she  did,  she  did 
quite  coolly.  She  climbed  over  the  front  of  the  dog- 
cart as  it  pitched  and  raced  down  the  hill,  and  balanc- 
ing herself  along  the  shafts,  reached  the  reins  at  the 
horse's   neck,  and  brought  the  horse  to  a  stop  ten 


THE   BALL    AT  LENNON  HOUSE  37 

yards  from  the  curve.  But  she  had,  too,  the  defects 
of  her  qualities,  although  Feversham  was  not  yet 
aware  of  them. 

Ethne  during  the  first  part  of  this  drive  was  almost 
as  silent  as  her  companion ;  and  when  she  spoke,  it 
was  with  an  absent  air,  as  though  she  had  something 
of  more  importance  in  her  thoughts.  It  was  not 
until  she  had  left  the  town  and  was  out  upon  the 
straight,  undulating  road  to  Letterkenny  that  she 
turned  quickly  to  Feversham  and  uttered  it. 

"  I  saw  this  morning  that  your  regiment  was 
ordered  from  India  to  Egypt.  You  could  have  gone 
with  it,  had  I  not  come  in  your  way.  There  would 
have  been  chances  of  distinction.  I  have  hindered 
you,  and  I  am  very  sorry.  Of  course,  you  could  not 
know  that  there  was  any  possibility  of  your  regiment 
going,  but  I  can  understand  it  is  very  hard  for  you 
to  be  left  behind.     I  blame  myself." 

Feversham  sat  staring  in  front  of  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  he  said,  in  a  voice  suddenly  grown 
hoarse :  — 

"You  need  not." 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  I  blame  myself  the  more," 
she  continued,  "because  I  do  not  see  things  quite 
like  other  women.  For  instance,  supposing  that  you 
had  gone  to  Egypt,  and  that  the  worst  had  happened, 
I  should  have  felt  very  lonely,  of  course,  all  my  days, 
but  I  should  have  known  quite  surely  that  when 
those  days  were  over,  you  and  I  would  see  much  of 
one  another." 

She  spoke  without  any  impressive  lowering  of  the 
voice,  but  in  the  steady,  level  tone  of  one  stating  the 
simplest  imaginable   fact.      Feversham   caught    his 


38  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

breath  like  a  man  in  pain.  But  the  girl's  eyes  were 
upon  his  face,  and  he  sat  still,  staring  in  front  of  him 
without  so  much  as  a  contraction  of  the  forehead. 
But  it  seemed  that  he  could  not  trust  himself  to 
answer.  He  kept  his  lips  closed,  and  Ethne  con- 
tinued :  — 

"You  see  I  can  put  up  with  the  absence  of  the 
people  I  care  about,  a  little  better  perhaps  than  most 
people.  I  do  not  feel  that  I  have  lost  them  at  all," 
and  she  cast  about  for  a  while  as  if  her  thought 
was  difficult  to  express.  "You  know  how  things 
happen,"  she  resumed.  "  One  goes  along  in  a  dull 
sort  of  way,  and  then  suddenly  a  face  springs  out 
from  the  crowd  of  one's  acquaintances,  and  you  know 
it  at  once  and  certainly  for  the  face  of  a  friend,  or 
rather  you  recognise  it,  though  you  have  never  seen 
it  before.  It  is  almost  as  though  you  had  come  upon 
some  one  long  looked  for  and  now  gladly  recovered. 
Well,  such  friends  —  they  are  few,  no  doubt,  but 
after  all  only  the  few  really  count  —  such  friends  one 
does  not  lose,  whether  they  are  absent,  or  even  — 
dead." 

"Unless,"  said  Feversham,  slowly,  "one  has  made 
a  mistake.  Suppose  the  face  in  the  crowd  is  a  mask, 
what  then  ?     One  may  make  mistakes." 

Ethne  shook  her  head  decidedly. 

"  Of  that  kind,  no.  One  may  seem  to  have  made 
mistakes,  and  perhaps  for  a  long  while.  But  in  the 
end  one  would  be  proved  not  to  have  made  them." 

And  the  girl's  implicit  faith  took  hold  upon  the 
man  and  tortured  him,  so  that  he  could  no  longer 
keep  silence. 

"  Ethne,"  he  cried,  "  you  don't  know  —  "     But  at 


THE   BALL   AT  LENNON  HOUSE  39 

that  moment  Ethne  reined  in  her  horse,  laughed,  and 
pointed  with  her  whip. 

They  had  come  to  the  top  of  a  hill  a  couple  of 
miles  from  Ramelton.  The  road  ran  between  stone 
walls  enclosing  open  fields  upon  the  left,  and  a  wood 
of  oaks  and  beeches  on  the  right.  A  scarlet  letter- 
box was  built  into  the  left-hand  wall,  and  at  that 
Ethne's  whip  was  pointed. 

"  I  wanted  to  show  you  that,"  she  interrupted. 
"  It  was  there  I  used  to  post  my  letters  to  you  dur- 
ing the  anxious  times."  And  so  Feversham  let  slip 
his  opportunity  of  speech. 

"The  house  is  behind  the  trees  to  the  right,"  she 
continued. 

"  The  letter-box  is  very  convenient,"  said  Fever- 
sham. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ethne,  and  she  drove  on  and  stopped 
again  where  the  park  wall  had  crumbled. 

"  That's  where  I  used  to  climb  over  to  post  the 
letters.  There's  a  tree  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
as  convenient  as  the  letter-box.  I  used  to  run  down 
the  half-mile  of  avenue  at  night." 

"  There  might  have  been  thieves,"  exclaimed  Fever- 
sham. 

"There  were  thorns,"  said  Ethne,  and  turning 
through  the  gates  she  drove  up  to  the  porch  of  the 
long,  irregular  grey  house.  "Well,  we  have  still  a 
day  before  the  dance." 

"  I  suppose  the  whole  country-side  is  coming,"  said 
Feversham. 

"  It  daren't  do  anything  else,"  said  Ethne,  with  a 
laugh.  "  My  father  would  send  the  police  to  fetch 
them  if  they  stayed  away,  just  as  he  fetched  your 


40  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

friend  Mr.  Durrance  here.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Durrance 
has  sent  me  a  present  —  a  Guarnerius  violin." 

The  door  opened,  and  a  thin,  lank  old  man,  with  a 
fierce  peaked  face  like  a  bird  of  prey,  came  out  upon 
the  steps.  His  face  softened,  however,  into  friendli- 
ness when  he  saw  Feversham,  and  a  smile  played 
upon  his  lips.  A  stranger  might  have  thought  that 
he  winked.  But  his  left  eyelid  continually  drooped 
over  the  eye. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  said.  "Glad  to  see  you. 
Must  make  yourself  at  home.  If  you  want  any 
whiskey,  stamp  twice  on  the  floor  with  your  foot. 
The  servants  understand,"   and  with   that  he  went 

straightway  back  into  the  house. 

******** 

The  biographer  of  Dermod  Eustace  would  need  to 
bring  a  wary  mind  to  his  work.  For  though  the  old 
master  of  Lennon  House  has  not  lain  twenty  years 
in  his  grave,  he  is  already  swollen  into  a  legendary 
character.  Anecdotes  have  grown  upon  his  memory 
like  barnacles,  and  any  man  in  those  parts  with  a 
knack  of  invention  has  only  to  foist  his  stories  upon 
Dermod  to  ensure  a  ready  credence.  There  are, 
however,  definite  facts.  He  practised  an  ancient  and 
tyrannous  hospitality,  keeping  open  house  upon  the 
road  to  Letterkenny,  and  forcing  bed  and  board  even 
upon  strangers,  as  Durrance  had  once  discovered.  He 
was  a  man  of  another  century,  who  looked  out  with 
a  glowering,  angry  eye  upon  a  topsy-turvy  world, 
and  would  not  be  reconciled  to  it  except  after  much 
alcohol.  He  was  a  sort  of  intoxicated  Coriolanus, 
believing  that  the  people  should  be  shepherded  with 
a  stick,  yet  always  mindful  of  his  manners,  even  to 


THE  BALL   AT  LENNON  HOUSE  41 

the  lowliest  of  women.  It  was  said  of  him  with 
pride  by  the  townsfolk  of  Ramelton,  that  even  at 
his  worst,  when  he  came  galloping  down  the  steep 
cobbled  streets,  mounted  on  a  big  white  mare  of 
seventeen  hands,  with  his  inseparable  collie  dog  for 
his  companion, — a  gaunt,  grey-faced,  grey-haired  man, 
with  a  drooping  eye,  swaying  with  drink,  yet  by  a 
miracle  keeping  his  saddle,  —  he  had  never  ridden 
down  any  one  except  a  man.  There  are  two  points 
to  be  added.  He  was  rather  afraid  of  his  daughter, 
who  wisely  kept  him  doubtful  whether  she  was  dis- 
pleased with  him  or  not,  and  he  had  conceived  a  great 
liking  for  Harry  Feversham. 

Harry  saw  little  of  him  that  day,  however.  Dermod 
retired  into  the  room  which  he  was  pleased  to  call  his 
office,  while  Feversham  and  Ethne  spent  the  after- 
noon fishing  for  salmon  in  the  Lennon  River.  It  was 
an  afternoon  restful  as  a  Sabbath,  and  the  very  birds 
were  still.  From  the  house  the  lawns  fell  steeply, 
shaded  by  trees  and  dappled  by  the  sunlight,  to  a 
valley,  at  the  bottom  of  which  flowed  the  river  swift 
and  black  under  overarching  boughs.  There  was  a 
fall,  where  the  water  slid  over  rocks  with  a  smooth- 
ness so  unbroken  that  it  looked  solid  except  just  at 
one  point.  There  a  spur  stood  sharply  up,  and  the 
river  broke  back  upon  itself  in  an  amber  wave  through 
which  the  sun  shone.  Opposite  this  spur  they  sat 
for  a  long  while,  talking  at  times,  but  for  the  most 
part  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  water  and  watching 
its  perpetual  flow.  And  at  last  the  sunset  came,  and 
the  long  shadows.  They  stood  up,  looked  at  each 
other  with  a  smile,  and  so  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
house.     It  was  an  afternoon  which  Feversham  was 


42  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

long  to  remember ;  for  the  next  night  was  the  night 
of  the  dance,  and  as  the  band  struck  up  the  opening 
bars  of  the  fourth  waltz,  Ethne  left  her  position  at 
the  drawing-room  door,  and  taking  Feversham's  arm 
passed  out  into  the  hall. 

The  hall  was  empty,  and  the  front  door  stood  open 
to  the  cool  of  the  summer  night.  From  the  ballroom 
came  the  swaying  lilt  of  the  music  and  the  beat  of 
the  dancers'  feet.  Ethne  drew  a  breath  of  relief  at 
her  reprieve  from  her  duties,  and  then  dropping  her 
partner's  arm,  crossed  to  a  side  table. 

"The  post  is  in,"  she  said.  "There  are  letters, 
one,  two,  three,  for  you,  and  a  little  box." 

She  held  the  box  out  to  him  as  she  spoke,  —  a  little 
white  jeweller's  cardboard  box, — and  was  at  once 
struck  by  its  absence  of  weight. 

"  It  must  be  empty,"  she  said. 

Yet  it  was  most  carefully  sealed  and  tied.  Fever- 
sham  broke  the  seals  and  unfastened  the  string.  He 
looked  at  the  address.  The  box  had  been  forwarded 
from  his  lodgings,  and  he  was  not  familiar  with  the 
handwriting. 

"  There  is  some  mistake,"  he  said  as  he  shook  the 
lid  open,  and  then  he  stopped  abruptly.  Three 
white  feathers  fluttered  out  of  the  box,  swayed  and 
rocked  for  a  moment  in  the  air,  and  then,  one  after 
another,  settled  gently  down  upon  the  floor.  They 
lay  like  flakes  of  snow  upon  the  dark  polished  boards. 
But  they  were  not  whiter  than  Harry  Feversham's 
cheeks.  He  stood  and  stared  at  the  feathers  until 
he  felt  a  light  touch  upon  his  arm.  He  looked  and 
saw  Ethne's  gloved  hand  upon  his  sleeve. 

"What   does   it  mean?"    she   asked.     There  was 


THE   BALL   AT  LENNON  HOUSE  43 

some  perplexity  in  her  voice,  but  nothing  more  than 
perplexity.  The  smile  upon  her  face  and  the  loyal 
confidence  in  her  eyes  showed  she  had  never  a  doubt 
that  his  first  word  would  lift  it  from  her.  "What 
does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  That  there  are  things  which  cannot  be  hid,  I 
suppose,"  said  Feversham. 

For  a  little  while  Ethne  did  not  speak.  The  lan- 
guorous music  floated  into  the  hall,  and  the  trees 
whispered  from  the  garden  through  the  open  door. 
Then  she  shook  his  arm  gently,  uttered  a  breathless 
little  laugh,  and  spoke  as  though  she  were  pleading 
with  a  child. 

"  I  don't  think  you  understand,  Harry.  Here  are 
three  white  feathers.  They  were  sent  to  you  in  jest  ? 
Oh,  of  course  in  jest.  But  it  is  a  cruel  kind  of 
jest  —  " 

"They  were  sent  in  deadly  earnest." 

He  spoke  now,  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes. 
Ethne  dropped  her  hand  from  his  sleeve. 

"  Who  sent  them  ?  "  she  asked. 

Feversham  had  not  given  a  thought  to  that  matter. 
The  message  was  all  in  all,  the  men  who  had  sent  it 
so  unimportant.  But  Ethne  reached  out  her  hand 
and  took  the  box  from  him.  There  were  three  visit- 
ing cards  lying  at  the  bottom,  and  she  took  them  out 
and  read  them  aloud. 

"  Captain  Trench,  Mr.  Castleton,  Mr.  Willoughby. 
Do  you  know  these  men  ?  " 

"  All  three  are  officers  of  my  old  regiment." 

The  girl  was  dazed.  She  knelt  down  upon  the 
floor  and  gathered  the  feathers  into  her  hand  with  a 
vague  thought  that  merely  to  touch  them  would  help 


44  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

her  to  comprehension.  They  lay  upon  the  palm  of 
her  white  glove,  and  she  blew  gently  upon  them,  and 
they  swam  up  into  the  air  and  hung  fluttering  and 
rocking.  As  they  floated  downward  she  caught 
them  again,  and  so  she  slowly  felt  her  way  to 
another  question. 

"  Were  they  justly  sent  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Harry  Feversham. 

He  had  no  thought  of  denial  or  evasion.  He  was 
only  aware  that  the  dreadful  thing  for  so  many  years 
dreadfully  anticipated  had  at  last  befallen  him.  He 
was  known  for  a  coward.  The  word  which  had  long 
blazed  upon  the  wall  of  his  thoughts  in  letters  of  fire 
was  now  written  large  in  the  public  places.  He  stood 
as  he  had  once  stood  before  the  portraits  of  his 
fathers,  mutely  accepting  condemnation.  It  was  the 
girl  who  denied,  as  she  still  kneeled  upon  the  floor. 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  is  true,"  she  said.  "  You 
could  not  look  me  in  the  face  so  steadily  were 
it  true.  Your  eyes  would  seek  the  floor,  not 
mine." 

"Yet  it  is  true." 

"  Three  little  white  feathers,"  she  said  slowly ;  and 
then,  with  a  sob  in  her  throat,  "  This  afternoon  we 
were  under  the  elms  down  by  the  Lennon  River  — 
do  you  remember,  Harry?  —  just  you  and  I.  And 
then  come  three  little  white  feathers,  and  the 
world's  at  an  end." 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  cried  Harry,  and  his  voice  broke 
upon  the  word.  Up  till  now  he  had  spoken  with  a 
steadiness  matching  the  steadiness  of  his  eyes.  But 
these  last  words  of  hers,  the  picture  which  they 
evoked  in    his   memories,  the  pathetic  simplicity  of 


THE   BALL   AT  LENNON  HOUSE  45 

her  utterance,  caught  him  by  the  heart.  But  Ethne 
seemed  not  to  hear  the  appeal.  She  was  listening 
with  her  face  turned  toward  the  ballroom.  The 
chatter  and  laughter  of  the  voices  there  grew  louder 
and  nearer.  She  understood  that  the  music  had 
ceased.  She  rose  quickly  to  her  feet,  clenching  the 
feathers  in  her  hand,  and  opened  a  door.  It  was  the 
door  of  her  sitting  room. 
"  Come,"  she  said. 

Harry  followed  her  into  the  room,  and  she  closed 
the  door,  shutting  out  the  noise. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "will  you  tell  me,  if  you  please, 
why  the  feathers  have  been  sent  ?  " 

She  stood  quietly  before  him ;  her  face  was  pale, 
but  Feversham  could  not  gather  from  her  expression 
any  feeling  which  she  might  have  beyond  a  desire 
and  a  determination  to  get  at  the  truth.  She  spoke, 
too,  with  the  same  quietude.  He  answered,  as  he  had 
answered  before,  directly  and  to  the  point,  without 
any  attempt  at  mitigation. 

"  A  telegram  came.  It  was  sent  by  Castleton.  It 
reached  me  when  Captain  Trench  and  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby  were  dining  with  me.  It  told  me  that  my 
regiment  would  be  ordered  on  active  service  in  Egypt. 
Castleton  was  dining  with  a  man  likely  to  know,  and 
I  did  not  question  the  accuracy  of  his  message.  He 
told  me  to  tell  Trench.  I  did  not.  I  thought  the 
matter  over  with  the  telegram  in  front  of  me.  Castle- 
ton was  leaving  that  night  for  Scotland,  and  he  would 
go  straight  from  Scotland  to  rejoin  the  regiment.  He 
would  not,  therefore,  see  Trench  for  some  weeks  at 
the  earliest,  and  by  that  time  the  telegram  would  very 
likely  be  forgotten  or  its  date  confused.     I  did  not 


46  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

tell  Trench.  I  threw  the  telegram  into  the  fire,  and 
that  night  sent  in  my  papers.  But  Trench  found  out 
somehow.  Durrance  was  at  dinner,  too, — good  God, 
Durrance  !  "  he  suddenly  broke  out.  "  Most  likely 
he  knows  like  the  rest." 

It  came  upon  him  as  something  shocking  and 
strangely  new  that  his  friend  Durrance,  who,  as  he 
knew  very  well,  had  been  wont  rather  to  look  up  to 
him,  in  all  likelihood  counted  him  a  thing  of  scorn. 
But  he  heard  Ethne  speaking.  After  all,  what  did 
it  matter  whether  Durrance  knew,  whether  every  man 
knew,  from  the  South  Pole  to  the  North,  since  she, 
Ethne,  knew? 

"  And  is  this  all  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Surely  it  is  enough,"  said  he. 

"  I  think  not,"  she  answered,  and  she  lowered  her 
voice  a  little  as  she  went  on.  "We  agreed,  didn't 
we,  that  no  foolish  misunderstandings  should  ever 
come  between  us  ?  We  were  to  be  frank,  and  to  take 
frankness  each  from  the  other  without  offence.  So 
be  frank  with  me  !  Please  !  "  and  she  pleaded.  "  I 
could,  I  think,  claim  it  as  a  right.  At  all  events  I 
ask  for  it  as  I  shall  never  ask  for  anything  else  in  all 
my  life." 

There  was  a  sort  of  explanation  of  his  act,  Harry 
Feversham  remembered  ;  but  it  was  so  futile  when 
compared  with  the  overwhelming  consequence.  Ethne 
had  unclenched  her  hands ;  the  three  feathers  lay  before 
his  eyes  upon  the  table.  They  could  not  be  explained 
away;  he  wore  "coward"  like  a  blind  man's  label; 
besides,  he  could  never  make  her  understand.  How- 
ever, she  wished  for  the  explanation  and  had  a  right 
to  it;  she  had  been  generous  in  asking  for  it,  with 


THE   BALL   AT  LENNON  HOUSE  47 

a  generosity  not  very  common  amongst  women.  So 
Feversham  gathered  his  wits  and  explained  :  — 

"All  my  life  I  have  been  afraid  that  some  day  I 
should  play  the  coward,  and  from  the  very  first  I 
knew  that  I  was  destined  for  the  army.  I  kept  my 
fear  to  myself.  There  was  no  one  to  whom  I  could 
tell  it.  My  mother  was  dead,  and  my  father  —  " 
he  stopped  for  a  moment,  with  a  deep  intake  of  the 
breath.  He  could  see  his  father,  that  lonely  iron 
man,  sitting  at  this  very  moment  in  his  mother's 
favourite  seat  upon  the  terrace,  and  looking  over  the 
moonlit  fields  toward  the  Sussex  Downs ;  he  could 
imagine  him  dreaming  of  honours  and  distinctions 
worthy  of  the  Fevershams  to  be  gained  immediately 
by  his  son  in  the  Egyptian  campaign.  Surely  that 
old  man's  stern  heart  would  break  beneath  this  blow , 
The  magnitude  of  the  bad  thing  which  he  had  done, 
the  misery  which  it  would  spread,  were  becoming 
very  clear  to  Harry  Feversham.  He  dropped  his 
head  between  his  hands  and  groaned  aloud. 

"  My  father,"  he  resumed,  "  would,  nay,  could,  never 
have  understood.  I  know  him.  When  danger  came 
his  way,  it  found  him  ready,  but  he  did  not  foresee. 
That  was  my  trouble  always,  —  I  foresaw.  Any  peril 
to  be  encountered,  any  risk  to  be  run,  —  I  foresaw 
them.  I  foresaw  something  else  besides.  My  father 
would  talk  in  his  matter-of-fact  way  of  the  hours  of 
waiting  before  the  actual  commencement  of  a  battle, 
after  the  troops  had  been  paraded.  The  mere  antici- 
pation of  the  suspense  and  the  strain  of  those  hours 
was  a  torture  to  me.  I  foresaw  the  possibility  of 
cowardice.  Then  one  evening,  when  my  father  had 
his  old  friends  about  him  on  one  of   his    Crimean 


48  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

nights,  two  dreadful  stories  were  told  —  one  of  an 
officer,  the  other  of  a  surgeon,  who  had  both  shirked. 
I  was  now  confronted  with  the  fact  of  cowardice. 
I  took  those  stories  up  to  bed  with  me.  They  never 
left  my  memory ;  they  became  a  part  of  me.  I  saw 
myself  behaving  now  as  one,  now  as  the  other,  of 
those  two  men  had  behaved,  perhaps  in  the  crisis  of 
a  battle  bringing  ruin  upon  my  country,  certainly 
dishonouring  my  father  and  all  the  dead  men  whose 
portraits  hung  ranged  in  the  hall.  I  tried  to  get  the 
best  of  my  fears.  I  hunted,  but  with  a  map  of  the 
country-side  in  my  mind.  I  foresaw  every  hedge, 
every  pit,  every  treacherous  bank." 

"  Yet  you  rode  straight,"  interrupted  Ethne.  "  Mr. 
Durrance  told  me  so." 

"  Did  I  ?  "  said  Feversham,  vaguely.  "  Well,  per- 
haps I  did,  once  the  hounds  were  off.  Durrance 
never  knew  what  the  moments  of  waiting  before  the 
coverts  were  drawn  meant  to  me !  So  when  this 
telegram  came,  I  took  the  chance  it  seemed  to  offer 
and  resigned." 

He  ended  his  explanation.  He  had  spoken  warily, 
having  something  to  conceal.  However  earnestly 
she  might  ask  for  frankness,  he  must  at  all  costs, 
for  her  sake,  hide  something  from  her.  But  at  once 
she  suspected  it. 

"  Were  you  afraid,  too,  of  disgracing  me  ?  Was  I  in 
any  way  the  cause  that  you  resigned  ?  " 

Feversham  looked  her  in  the  eyes  and  lied  :  — 

"  No." 

"  If  you  had  not  been  engaged  to  me,  you  would 
still  have  sent  in  your  papers  ? " 

"  Yes." 


THE   BALL  AT  LENNON  HOUSE  49 

Ethne  slowly  stripped  a  glove  off  her  hand.  Fever- 
sham  turned  away. 

"  I  think  that  I  am  rather  like  your  father,"  she 
said.  "  I  don't  understand ;  "  and  in  the  silence 
which  followed  upon  her  words  Feversham  heard 
something  whirr  and  rattle  upon  the  table.  He 
looked  and  saw  that  she  had  slipped  her  engagement 
ring  off  her  finger.  It  lay  upon  the  table,  the  stones 
winking  at  him. 

"And  all  this  —  all  that  you  have  told  to  me,"  she  ex- 
claimed suddenly,  with  her  face  very  stern,  "you  would 
have  hidden  from  me  ?  You  would  have  married  me 
and  hidden  it,  had  not  these  three  feathers  come  ? " 

The  words  had  been  on  her  lips  from  the  begin- 
ning, but  she  had  not  uttered  them  lest  by  a  miracle 
he  should  after  all  have  some  unimagined  explana- 
tion which  would  reestablish  him  in  her  thoughts. 
She  had  given  him  every  chance.  Now,  however, 
she  struck  and  laid  bare  the  worst  of  his  disloyalty. 
Feversham  flinched,  and  he  did  not  answer  but 
allowed  his  silence  to  consent.  Ethne,  however,  was 
just;  she  was  in  a  way  curious  too:  she  wished  to 
know  the  very  bottom  of  the  matter  before  she  thrust 
it  into  the  back  of  her  mind. 

"  But  yesterday,"  she  said,  "  you  were  going  to 
tell  me  something.  I  stopped  you  to  point  out  the 
letter-box,"  and  she  laughed  in  a  queer  empty  way. 
"  Was  it  about  the  feathers  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Feversham,  wearily.  What  did 
these  persistent  questions  matter,  since  the  feathers 
had  come,  since  her  ring  lay  flickering  and  winking 
on  the  table  ?  "  Yes,  I  think  what  you  were  saying 
rather  compelled  me." 

E 


50  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  I  remember,"  said  Ethne,  interrupting  him  rather 
hastily,  "about  seeing  much  of  one  another — after- 
wards. We  will  not  speak  of  such  things  again," 
and  Feversham  swayed  upon  his  feet  as  though  he 
would  fall.  "  I  remember,  too,  you  said  one  could 
make  mistakes.  You  were  right;  I  was  wrong.  One 
can  do  more  than  seem  to  make  them.  Will  you,  if 
you  please,  take  back  your  ring  ?  " 

Feversham  picked  up  the  ring  and  held  it  in  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  standing  very  still.  He  had  never 
cared  for  her  so  much,  he  had  never  recognised  her 
value  so  thoroughly,  as  at  this  moment  when  he  lost 
her.  She  gleamed  in  the  quiet  room,  wonderful, 
most  wonderful,  from  the  bright  flowers  in  her  hair 
to  the  white  slipper  on  her  foot.  It  was  incredible 
to  him  that  he  should  ever  have  won  her.  Yet  he 
had,  and  disloyally  had  lost  her.  Then  her  voice 
broke  in  again  upon  his  reflections. 

"  These,  too,  are  yours.  Will  you  take  them, 
please  ? " 

She  was  pointing  with  her  fan  to  the  feathers  upon 
the  table.  Feversham  obediently  reached  out  his 
hand,  and  then  drew  it  back  in  surprise. 

"  There  are  four,"  he  said. 

Ethne  did  not  reply,  and  looking  at  her  fan  Fever- 
sham understood.  If  was  a  fan  of  ivory  and  white 
feathers.  She  had  broken  off  one  of  those  feathers 
and  added  it  on  her  own  account  to  the  three. 

The  thing  which  she  had  done  was  cruel,  no  doubt. 
But  she  wished  to  make  an  end  —  a  complete,  irrevo- 
cable end  ;  though  her  voice  was  steady  and  her 
face,  despite  its  pallor,  calm,  she  was  really  tortured 
with  humiliation  and  pain.     All  the  details  of  Harry 


THE   BALL   AT  LENNON  HOUSE  51 

Feversham's  courtship,  the  interchange  of  looks,  the 
letters  she  had  written  and  received,  the  words  which 
had  been  spoken,  tingled  and  smarted  unbearably  in 
her  recollections.  Their  lips  had  touched  —  she 
recalled  it  with  horror.  She  desired  never  to  see 
Harry  Feversham  after  this  night.  Therefore  she 
added  her  fourth  feather  to  the  three. 

Harry  Feversham  took  the  feathers  as  she  bade 
him,  without  a  word  of  remonstrance,  and  indeed 
with  a  sort  of  dignity  which  even  at  that  moment 
surprised  her.  All  the  time,  too,  he  had  kept  his  eyes 
steadily  upon  hers,  he  had  answered  her  questions 
simply,  there  had  been  nothing  abject  in  his  manner; 
so  that  Ethne  already  began  to  regret  this  last  thing 
which  she  had  done.  However,  it  was  done.  Fever- 
sham had  taken  the  four  feathers. 

He  held  them  in  his  fingers  as  though  he  was  about 
to  tear  them  across.  But  he  checked  the  action. 
He  looked  suddenly  towards  her,  and  kept  his  eyes 
upon  her  face  for  some  little  while.  Then  very  care- 
fully he  put  the  feathers  into  his  breast  pocket. 
Ethne  at  this  time  did  not  consider  why.  She  only 
thought  that  here  was  the  irrevocable  end. 

"We  should  be  going  back,  I  think,"  she  said. 
"  We  have  been  some  time  away.  Will  you  give  me 
your  arm?"  In  the  hall  she  looked  at  the  clock. 
"  Only  eleven  o'clock,"  she  said  wearily.  "  When 
we  dance  here,  we  dance  till  daylight.  We  must 
show  brave  faces  until  daylight." 

And  with  her  hand  resting  upon  his  arm,  they 
passed  into  the  ballroom. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE    PARIAH 

Habit  assisted  them ;  the  irresponsible  chatter  of 
the  ballroom  sprang  automatically  to  their  lips ;  the 
appearance  of  enjoyment  never  failed  from  off  their 
faces  ;  so  that  no  one  at  Lennon  House  that  night 
suspected  that  any  swift  cause  of  severance  had  come 
between  them.  Harry  Feversham  watched  Ethne 
laugh  and  talk  as  though  she  had  never  a  care,  and 
was  perpetually  surprised,  taking  no  thought  that  he 
wore  the  like  mask  of  gaiety  himself.  When  she 
swung  past  him  the  light  rhythm  of  her  feet  almost 
persuaded  him  that  her  heart  was  in  the  dance.  It 
seemed  that  she  could  even  command  the  colour  upon 
her  cheeks.  Thus  they  both  wore  brave  faces  as  she 
had  bidden.  They  even  danced  together.  But  all 
the  while  Ethne  was  conscious  that  she  was  holding 
up  a  great  load  of  pain  and  humiliation  which  would 
presently  crush  her,  and  Feversham  felt  those  four 
feathers  burning  at  his  breast.  It  was  wonderful  to 
him  that  the  whole  company  did  not  know  of  them. 
He  never  approached  a  partner  without  the  notion 
that  she  would  turn  upon  him  with  the  contemptuous 
name  which  was  his  upon  her  tongue.  Yet  he  felt 
no  fear  on  that  account.  He  would  not  indeed  have 
cared  had  it  happened,  had  the  word  been  spoken. 
He  had  lost  Ethne.     He  watched  her  and  looked  in 

52 


THE   PARIAH  53 

vain  amongst  her  guests,  as  indeed  he  surely  knew 
he  would,  for  a  fit  comparison.  There  were  women, 
pretty,  graceful,  even  beautiful,  but  Ethne  stood  apart 
by  the  particular  character  of  her  beauty.  The  broad 
forehead,  the  perfect  curve  of  the  eyebrows,  the 
great  steady,  clear,  grey  eyes,  the  full  red  lips  which 
could  dimple  into  tenderness  and  shut  level  with  reso- 
lution, and  the  royal  grace  of  her  carriage,  marked 
her  out  to  Feversham's  thinking,  and  would  do  so 
in  any  company.  He  watched  her  in  a  despairing 
amazement  that  he  had  ever  had  a  chance  of  owning 
her. 

Only  once  did  her  endurance  fail,  and  then  only 
for  a  second.  She  was  dancing  with  Feversham,  and 
as  she  looked  toward  the  windows  she  saw  that  the 
daylight  was  beginning  to  show  very  pale  and  cold 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  blinds. 

"  Look !  "  she  said,  and  Feversham  suddenly  felt 
all  her  weight  upon  his  arms.  Her  face  lost  its  col- 
our and  grew  tired  and  very  grey.  Her  eyes  shut 
tightly  and  then  opened  again.  He  thought  that  she 
would  faint.  "  The  morning  at  last !  "  she  exclaimed, 
and  then  in  a  voice  as  weary  as  her  face,  "  I  wonder 
whether  it  is  right  that  one  should  suffer  so  much 
pain." 

"  Hush  !  "  whispered  Feversham.  "  Courage  !  A 
few  minutes  more  —  only  a  very  few  !  "  He  stopped 
and  stood  in  front  of  her  until  her  strength  returned. 

"  Thank  you  !  "  she  said  gratefully,  and  the  bright 
wheel  of  the  dance  caught  them  in  its  spokes  again. 

It  was  strange  that  he  should  be  exhorting  her  to 
courage,  she  thanking  him  for  help ;  but  the  irony 
of  this  queer  momentary  reversal  of  their  position 


54  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

occurred  to  neither  of  them.  Ethne  was  too  tried 
by  the  strain  of  those  last  hours,  and  Feversham  had 
learned  from  that  one  failure  of  her  endurance,  from 
the  drawn  aspect  of  her  face  and  the  depths  of  pain 
in  her  eyes,  how  deeply  he  had  wounded  her.  He 
no  longer  said,  "  I  have  lost  her,"  he  no  longer 
thought  of  his  loss  at  all.  He  heard  her  words,  "  I 
wonder  whether  it  is  right  that  one  should  suffer  so 
much  pain."  He  felt  that  they  would  go  ringing 
down  the  world  with  him,  persistent  in  his  ears, 
spoken  upon  the  very  accent  of  her  voice.  He  was 
sure  that  he  would  hear  them  at  the  end  above  the 
voices  of  any  who  should  stand  about  him  when  he 
died,  and  hear  in  them  his  condemnation.  For  it  was 
not  right. 

The  ball  finished  shortly  afterwards.  The  last 
carriage  drove  away,  and  those  who  were  staying  in 
the  house  sought  the  smoking-room  or  went  upstairs 
to  bed  according  to  their  sex.  Feversham,  however, 
lingered  in  the  hall  with  Ethne.  She  understood 
why. 

"There  is  no  need,"  she  said,  standing  with  her 
back  to  him  as  she  lighted  a  candle,  "  I  have  told  my 
father.     I  told  him  everything." 

Feversham  bowed  his  head  in  acquiescence. 

"  Still,  I  must  wait  and  see  him,"  he  said. 

Ethne  did  not  object,  but  she  turned  and  looked  at 
him  quickly  with  her  brows  drawn  in  a  frown  of  perplex- 
ity. To  wait  for  her  father  under  such  circumstances 
seemed  to  argue  a  certain  courage.  Indeed,  she  her- 
self felt  some  apprehension  as  she  heard  the  door  of 
the  study  open  and  Dermod's  footsteps  on  the  floor. 
Dermod  walked  straight   up    to    Harry  Feversham, 


THE   PARIAH  55 

looking  for  once  in  a  way  what  he  was,  a  very  old 
man,  and  stood  there  staring  into  Feversham's  face 
with  a  muddled  and  bewildered  expression.  Twice 
he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  no  words  came. 
In  the  end  he  turned  to  the  table  and  lit  his  candle 
and  Harry  Feversham's.  Then  he  turned  back 
toward  Feversham,  and  rather  quickly,  so  that 
Ethne  took  a  step  forward  as  if  to  get  between  them  ; 
but  he  did  nothing  more  than  stare  at  Feversham  again 
and  for  a  long  time.     Finally,  he  took  up  his  candle. 

"Well  —  "  he  said,  and  stopped.  He  snuffed  the 
wick  with  the  scissors  and  began  again.  "Well  —  " 
he  said,  and  stopped  again.  Apparently  his  candle 
had  not  helped  him  to  any  suitable  expressions.  He 
stared  into  the  flame  now  instead  of  into  Feversham's 
face,  and  for  an  equal  length  of  time.  He  could 
think  of  nothing  whatever  to  say,  and  yet  he  was 
conscious  that  something  must  be  said.  In  the  end 
he  said  lamely  :  — 

"  If  you  want  any  whiskey,  stamp  twice  on  the 
floor  with  your  foot.     The  servants  understand." 

Thereupon  he  walked  heavily  up  the  stairs.  The 
old  man's  forbearance  was  perhaps  not  the  least  part 

of  Harry  Feversham's  punishment. 

******* 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  Ethne  was  at  last  alone 
within  her  room.  She  drew  up  the  blinds  and  opened 
the  windows  wide.  The  cool  fresh  air  of  the  morn- 
ing was  as  a  draught  of  spring-water  to  her.  She 
looked  out  upon  a  world  as  yet  unillumined  by  colours 
and  found  therein  an  image  of  her  days  to  come. 
The  dark,  tall  trees  looked  black ;  the  winding  paths, 
a  singular  dead  white ;  the  very  lawns  were  dull  and 


56  THE   FOUR   FEATHERS 

grey,  though  the  dew  lay  upon  them  like  a  network 
of  frost.  It  was  a  noisy  world,  however,  for  all  its 
aspect  of  quiet.  For  the  blackbirds  were  calling 
from  the  branches  and  the  grass,  and  down  beneath 
the  overhanging  trees  the  Lennon  flowed  in  music 
between  its  banks.  Ethne  drew  back  from  the  win- 
dow. She  had  much  to  do  that  morning  before  she 
slept.  For  she  designed  with  her  natural  thorough- 
ness to  make  an  end  at  once  of  all  her  associations 
with  Harry  Feversham.  She  wished  that  from  the 
moment  when  next  she  waked  she  might  never  come 
across  a  single  thing  which  could  recall  him  to  her 
memory.  And  with  a  sort  of  stubborn  persistence 
she  went  about  the  work. 

But  she  changed  her  mind.  In  the  very  process 
of  collecting  together  the  gifts  which  he  had  made 
to  her  she  changed  her  mind.  For  each  gift  that 
she  looked  upon  had  its  history,  and  the  days  before 
this  miserable  night  had  darkened  on  her  happiness 
came  one  by  one  slowly  back  to  her  as  she  looked. 
She  determined  to  keep  one  thing  which  had  be- 
longed to  Harry  Feversham,  —  a  small  thing,  a  thing 
of  no  value.  At  first  she  chose  a  penknife,  which  he 
had  once  lent  to  her  and  she  had  forgotten  to  return. 
But  the  next  instant  she  dropped  it  and  rather  hur- 
riedly. For  she  was  after  all  an  Irish  girl,  and 
though  she  did  not  believe  in  superstitions,  where 
superstitions  were  concerned  she  preferred  to  be  on 
the  safe  side.  She  selected  his  photograph  in  the 
end  and  locked  it  away  in  a  drawer. 

She  gathered  the  rest  of  his  presents  together, 
packed  them  carefully  in  a  box,  fastened  the  box, 
addressed  it  and  carried  it  down  to  the  hall,  that  the 


THE   PARIAH  57 

servants  might  despatch  it  in  the  morning.  Then 
coming  back  to  her  room  she  took  his  letters,  made 
a  little  pile  of  them  on  the  hearth  and  set  them  alight. 
They  took  some  while  to  consume,  but  she  waited, 
sitting  upright  in  her  arm-chair  while  the  flame  crept 
from  sheet  to  sheet,  discolouring  the  paper,  blacken- 
ing the  writing  like  a  stream  of  ink,  and  leaving  in 
the  end  only  flakes  of  ashes  like  feathers,  and  white 
flakes  like  white  feathers.  The  last  sparks  were 
barely  extinguished  when  she  heard  a  cautious  step 
on  the  gravel  beneath  her  window. 

It  was  broad  daylight,  but  her  candle  was  still 
burning  on  the  table  at  her  side,  and  with  a  quick 
instinctive  movement  she  reached  out  her  arm  and 
put  the  light  out.  Then  she  sat  very  still  and  rigid, 
listening.  For  a  while  she  heard  only  the  blackbirds 
calling  from  the  trees  in  the  garden  and  the  throb- 
bing music  of  the  river.  Afterward  she  heard  the 
footsteps  again,  cautiously  retreating ;  and  in  spite 
of  her  will,  in  spite  of  her  formal  disposal  of  the  let- 
ters and  the  presents,  she  was  mastered  all  at  once, 
not  by  pain  or  humiliation,  but  by  an  overpowering 
sense  of  loneliness.  She  seemed  to  be  seated  high 
on  an  empty  world  of  ruins.  She  rose  quickly  from 
her  chair,  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  violin  case.  With 
a  sigh  of  relief  she  opened  it,  and  a  little  while  after 
one  or  two  of  the  guests  who  were  sleeping  in  the 
house  chanced  to  wake  up  and  heard  floating  down 
the  corridors  the  music  of  a  violin  played  very  lov- 
ingly and  low.  Ethne  was  not  aware  that  the  violin 
which  she  held  was  the  Guarnerius  violin  which  Dur- 
rance  had  sent  to  her.  She  only  understood  that  she 
had  a  companion  to  share  her  loneliness. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HARRY   FEVERSHAM'S   PLAN 

It  was  the  night  of  August  30.  A  month  had 
passed  since  the  ball  at  Lennon  House,  but  the  un- 
eventful country-side  of  Donegal  was  still  busy  with 
the  stimulating  topic  of  Harry  Feversham's  dis- 
appearance. The  townsmen  in  the  climbing  street 
and  the  gentry  at  their  dinner-tables  gossiped  to  their 
hearts'  contentment.  It  was  asserted  that  Harry 
Feversham  had  been  seen  on  the  very  morning  after 
the  dance,  and  at  five  minutes  to  six  —  though  accord- 
ing to  Mrs.  Brien  O'Brien  it  was  ten  minutes  past  the 
hour  —  still  in  his  dress  clothes  and  with  a  white 
suicide's  face,  hurrying  along  the  causeway  by  the 
Lennon  Bridge.  It  was  suggested  that  a  drag-net 
would  be  the  only  way  to  solve  the  mystery.  Mr. 
Dennis  Rafferty,  who  lived  on  the  road  to  Rath- 
mullen,  indeed,  went  so  far  as  to  refuse  salmon  on  the 
plea  that  he  was  not  a  cannibal,  and  the  saying  had  a 
general  vogue.  Their  conjectures  as  to  the  cause  of 
the  disappearance  were  no  nearer  to  the  truth.  For 
there  were  only  two  who  knew,  and  those  two  went 
steadily  about  the  business  of  living  as  though  no 
catastrophe  had  befallen  them.  They  held  their 
heads  a  trifle  more  proudly  perhaps.  Ethne  might 
have   become  a  little  more  gentle,  Dermod   a   little 


HARRY  FEVERSHAM' S   PLAN  59 

more  irascible,  but  these  were  the  only  changes.     So 
gossip  had  the  field  to  itself. 

But  Harry  Feversham  was  in  London,  as  Lieuten- 
ant Sutch  discovered  on  the  night  of  the  30th.  All 
that  day  the  town  had  been  perturbed  by  rumours  of 
a  great  battle  fought  at  Kassassin  in  the  desert  east 
of  Ismailia.  Messengers  had  raced  ceaselessly  through 
the  streets,  shouting  tidings  of  victory  and  tidings  of 
disaster.  There  had  been  a  charge  by  moonlight  of 
General  Drury-Lowe's  Cavalry  Brigade,  which  had 
rolled  up  Arabi's  left  flank  and  captured  his  guns.  It 
was  rumoured  that  an  English  general  had  been  killed, 
that  the  York  and  Lancaster  Regiment  had  been  cut  up. 
London  was  uneasy,  and  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  a 
great  crowd  of  people  had  gathered  beneath  the  gas- 
lamps  in  Pall  Mall,  watching  with  pale  upturned  faces 
the  lighted  blinds  of  the  War  Office.  The  crowd  was 
silent  and  impressively  still.  Only  if  a  figure  moved 
for  an  instant  across  the  blinds,  a  thrill  of  expectation 
passed  from  man  to  man,  and  the  crowd  swayed  in  a 
continuous  movement  from  edge  to  edge.  Lieutenant 
Sutch,  careful  of  his  wounded  leg,  was  standing  on 
the  outskirts,  with  his  back  to  the  parapet  of  the 
Junior  Carlton  Club,  when  he  felt  himself  touched 
upon  the  arm.  He  saw  Harry  Feversham  at  his 
side.  Feversham's  face  was  working  and  extraordi- 
narily white,  his  eyes  were  bright  like  the  eyes  of  a 
man  in  a  fever ;  and  Sutch  at  the  first  was  not  sure 
that  he  knew  or  cared  who  it  was  to  whom  he  talked. 

"  I  might  have  been  out  there  in  Egypt  to-night," 
said  Harry,  in  a  quick  troubled  voice.  "  Think  of  it ! 
I  might  have  been  out  there,  sitting  by  a  camp-fire  in 
the  desert,  talking  over  the  battle  with  Jack  Durrance ; 


60  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

or  dead  perhaps.  What  would  it  have  mattered  ?  I 
might  have  been  in  Egypt  to-night !  " 

Feversham's  unexpected  appearance,  no  less  than 
his  wandering  tongue,  told  Sutch  that  somehow  his 
fortunes  had  gone  seriously  wrong.  He  had  many 
questions  in  his  mind,  but  he  did  not  ask  a  single  one 
of  them.  He  took  Feversham's  arm  and  led  him 
straight  out  of  the  throng. 

"  I  saw  you  in  the  crowd,"  continued  Feversham. 
"  I  thought  that  I  would  speak  to  you,  because  —  do 
you  remember,  a  long  time  ago  you  gave  me  your 
card  ?  I  have  always  kept  it,  because  I  have  always 
feared  that  I  would  have  reason  to  use  it.  You  said 
that  if  one  was  in  trouble,  the  telling  might  help." 

Sutch  stopped  his  companion. 

"  We  will  go  in  here.  We  can  find  a  quiet  corner 
in  the  upper  smoking-room  ;  "  and  Harry,  looking  up, 
saw  that  he  was  standing  by  the  steps  of  the  Army 
and  Navy  Club. 

"  Good  God,  not  there ! "  he  cried  in  a  sharp  low 
voice,  and  moved  quickly  into  the  roadway,  where  no 
light  fell  directly  on  his  face.  Sutch  limped  after  him. 
"  Nor  to-night.  It  is  late.  To-morrow  if  you  will,  in 
some  quiet  place,  and  after  nightfall.  I  do  not  go  out 
in  the  daylight." 

Again  Lieutenant  Sutch  asked  no  questions. 

"  I  know  a  quiet  restaurant,"  he  said.  "  If  we 
dine  there  at  nine,  we  shall  meet  no  one  whom  we 
know.  I  will  meet  you  just  before  nine  to-morrow 
night  at  the  corner  of  Swallow  Street." 

They  dined  together  accordingly  on  the  following 
evening,  at  a  table  in  the  corner  of  the  Criterion  grill- 
room. Feversham  looked  quickly  about  him  as  he 
entered  the  room. 


HARRY  FEVERSHAM' S   PLAN  6l 

"  I  dine  here  often  when  I  am  in  town,"  said  Sutch. 
"  Listen !  "  The  throbbing  of  the  engines  working 
the  electric  light  could  be  distinctly  heard,  their 
vibrations  could  be  felt. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  a  ship,"  said  Sutch,  with  a 
smile.  "  I  can  almost  fancy  myself  in  the  gunroom 
again.  We  will  have  dinner.  Then  you  shall  tell 
me  your  story." 

"  You  have  heard  nothing  of  it  ?  "  asked  Feversham, 
suspiciously. 

"  Not  a  word ; "  and  Feversham  drew  a  breath  of 
relief.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  every  one  must 
know.  He  imagined  contempt  on  every  face  which 
passed  him  in  the  street. 

Lieutenant  Sutch  was  even  more  concerned  this 
evening  than  he  had  been  the  night  before.  He  saw 
Harry  Feversham  clearly  now  in  a  full  light.  Harry's 
face  was  thin  and  haggard  with  lack  of  sleep,  there 
were  black  hollows  beneath  his  eyes  ;  he  drew  his 
breath  and  made  his  movements  in  a  restless  feverish 
fashion,  his  nerves  seemed  strung  to  breaking-point. 
Once  or  twice  between  the  courses  he  began  his  story, 
but  Sutch  would  not  listen  until  the  cloth  was  cleared. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  holding  out  his  cigar-case.  "  Take 
your  time,  Harry." 

Thereupon  Feversham  told  him  the  whole  truth, 
without  exaggeration  or  omission,  forcing  himself  to 
a  slow,  careful,  matter-of-fact  speech,  so  that  in  the 
end  Sutch  almost  fell  into  the  illusion  that  it  was  just 
the  story  of  a  stranger  which  Feversham  was  recount- 
ing merely  to  pass  the  time.  He  began  with  the 
Crimean  night  at  Broad  Place,  and  ended  with  the 
ball  at  Lennon  House. 


62  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  I  came  back  across  Lough  Swilly  early  that 
morning,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "  and  travelled  at 
once  to  London.  Since  then  I  have  stayed  in  my 
rooms  all  day,  listening  to  the  bugles  calling  in  the 
barrack-yard  beneath  my  windows.  At  night  I  prowl 
about  the  streets  or  lie  in  bed  waiting  for  the  West- 
minster clock  to  sound  each  new  quarter  of  an  hour. 
On  foggy  nights,  too,  I  can  hear  steam-sirens  on  the 
river.  Do  you  know  when  the  ducks  start  quacking 
in  St.  James's  Park  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  laugh.  "  At 
two  o'clock  to  the  minute." 

Sutch  listened  to  the  story  without  an  interruption. 
But  halfway  through  the  narrative  he  changed  his 
attitude,  and  in  a  significant  way.  Up  to  the  moment 
when  Harry  told  of  his  concealment  of  the  telegram, 
Sutch  had  sat  with  his  arms  upon  the  table  in  front 
of  him,  and  his  eyes  upon  his  companion.  There- 
after he  raised  a  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  so  remained 
with  his  face  screened  while  the  rest  was  told.  Fever- 
sham  had  no  doubt  of  the  reason.  Lieutenant  Sutch 
wished  to  conceal  the  scorn  he  felt,  and  could  not 
trust  the  muscles  of  his  face.  Feversham,  however, 
mitigated  nothing,  but  continued  steadily  and  truth- 
fully to  the  end.  But  even  after  the  end  was  reached, 
Sutch  did  not  remove  his  hand,  nor  for  some  little 
while  did  he  speak.  When  he  did  speak,  his  words 
came  upon  Feversham's  ears  with  a  shock  of  surprise. 
There  was  no  contempt  in  them,  and  though  his  voice 
shook,  it  shook  with  a  great  contrition. 

"I  am  much  to  blame,"  he  said.  "I  should  have 
spoken  that  night  at  Broad  Place,  and  I  held  my 
tongue.  I  shall  hardly  forgive  myself."  The  know- 
ledge that  it  was  Muriel  Graham's  son  who  had  thus 


HARRY  FEVERSHAM'S   PLAN  63 

brought  ruin  and  disgrace  upon  himself  was  upper- 
most in  the  lieutenant's  mind.  He  felt  that  he  had 
failed  in  the  discharge  of  an  obligation,  self-imposed, 
no  doubt,  but  a  very  real  obligation  none  the  less. 
"You  see,  I  understood,"  he  continued  remorsefully. 
"Your  father,  I  am  afraid,  never  would." 

"  He  never  will,"  interrupted  Harry. 

"  No,"  Sutch  agreed.-  "  Your  mother,  of  course, 
had  she  lived,  would  have  seen  clearly ;  but  few 
women,  I  think,  except  your  mother.  Brute  courage ! 
Women  make  a  god  of  it.  That  girl,  for  instance," 
—  and  again  Harry  Feversham  interrupted. 

"  You  must  not  blame  her.  I  was  defrauding  her 
into  marriage." 

Sutch  took  his  hand  suddenly  from  his  forehead. 

"  Suppose  that  you  had  never  met  her,  would  you 
still  have  sent  in  your  papers  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Harry,  slowly.  "  I  want  to  be 
fair.  Disgracing  my  name  and  those  dead  men  in 
the  hall  I  think  I  would  have  risked.  I  could  not 
risk  disgracing  her." 

And  Lieutenant  Sutch  thumped  his  fist  despair- 
ingly upon  the  table.  "  If  only  I  had  spoken  at 
Broad  Place.  Harry,  why  didn't  you  let  me  speak? 
I  might  have  saved  you  many  unnecessary  years  of 
torture.  GoGd  heavens !  what  a  childhood  you  must 
have  spent  with  that  fear  all  alone  with  you.  It 
makes  me  shiver  to  think  of  it.  I  might  even  have 
saved  you  from  this  last  catastrophe.  For  I  under- 
stood.    I  understood." 

Lieutenant  Sutch  saw  more  clearly  into  the  dark 
places  of  Harry  Feversham's  mind  than  Harry 
Feversham   did    himself;    and   because   he   saw   so 


64  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

clearly,  he  could  feel  no  contempt.  The  long  years 
of  childhood,  and  boyhood,  and  youth,  lived  apart  in 
Broad  Place  in  the  presence  of  the  uncomprehending 
father  and  the  relentless  dead  men  on  the  walls,  had 
done  the  harm.  There  had  been  no  one  in  whom  the 
boy  could  confide.  The  fear  of  cowardice  had  sapped 
incessantly  at  his  heart.  He  had  walked  about  with 
it;  he  had  taken  it  with  him  to  his  bed.  It  had 
haunted  his  dreams.  It  had  been  his  perpetual  men- 
acing companion.  It  had  kept  him  from  intimacy 
with  his  friends  lest  an  impulsive  word  should  betray 
him.  Lieutenant  Sutch  did  not  wonder  that  in  the 
end  it  had  brought  about  this  irretrievable  mistake; 
for  Lieutenant  Sutch  understood. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  '  Hamlet'  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Harry,  in  reply. 

"  Ah,  but  did  you  consider  it  ?  The  same  disability 
is  clear  in  that  character.  The  thing  which  he  fore- 
saw, which  he  thought  over,  which  he  imagined  in 
the  act  and  in  the  consequence  —  that  he  shrank 
from,  upbraiding  himself  even  as  you  have  done. 
Yet  when  the  moment  of  action  comes,  sharp  and 
immediate,  does  he  fail?  No,  he  excels,  and  just  by 
reason  of  that  foresight.  I  have  seen  men  in  the 
Crimea,  tortured  by  their  imaginations  before  the 
fight  —  once  the  fight  had  begun  you  must  search 
amongst  the  Oriental  fanatics  for  their  match.  '  Am 
I  a  coward  ? '     Do  you  remember  the  lines  ? 

Am  I  a  coward? 
Who  calls  me  villain  ?    Breaks  my  pate  across  ? 
Plucks  off  my  beard,  and  blows  it  in  my  face? 

There's  the  case  in  a  nutshell.  If  only  I  had  spoken 
on  that  night !  " 


HARRY  FEFERSHAM'S   PLAN  65 

One  or  two  people  passed  the  table  on  the  way  out 
Sutch  stopped  and  looked  round  the  room.  It  was 
nearly  empty.  He  glanced  at  his  watch  and  saw 
that  the  hour  was  eleven.  Some  plan  of  action  must 
be  decided  upon  that  night.  It  was  not  enough  to 
hear  Harry  Feversham's  story.  There  still  remained 
the  question,  what  was  Harry  Feversham,  disgraced 
and  ruined,  now  to  do  ?  How  was  he  to  re-create  his 
life  ?  How  was  the  secret  of  his  disgrace  to  be  most 
easily  concealed  ? 

"  You  cannot  stay  in  London,  hiding  by  day,  slink- 
ing about  by  night,"  he  said  with  a  shiver.  "  That's 
too  like  —  "  and  he  checked  himself.  Feversham, 
however,  completed  the  sentence. 

"That's  too  like  Wilmington,"  said  he,  quietly,  re- 
calling the  story  which  his  father  had  told  so  many 
years  ago,  and  which  he  had  never  forgotten,  even  for 
a  single  day.  "But  Wilmington's  end  will  not  be 
mine.  Of  that  I  can  assure  you.  I  shall  not  stay  in 
London." 

He  spoke  with  an  air  of  decision.  He  had  indeed 
mapped  out  already  the  plan  of  action  concerning 
which  Lieutenant  Sutch  was  so  disturbed.  Sutch, 
however,  was  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts. 

"Who  knows  of  the  feathers?  How  many  peo- 
ple ? "  he  asked.     "  Give  me  their  names." 

"Trench,  Castleton,  Willoughby,"  began  Fever- 
sham. 

"All  three  are  in  Egypt.  Besides,  for  the  credit 
of  their  regiment  they  are  likely  to  hold  their  tongues 
when  they  return.     Who  else  ? " 

"  Dermod  Eustace  and  —  and  —  Ethne." 

"They  will  not  speak." 


66  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"You,  Durrance  perhaps,  and  my  father." 

Sutch  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  stared. 

"  Your  father  !     You  wrote  to  him  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  went  into  Surrey  and  told  him." 

Again  remorse  for  that  occasion,  recognised  and 
not  used,  seized  upon  Lieutenant  Sutch. 

"Why  didn't  I  speak  that  night?"  he  said  impo- 
tently.  "  A  coward,  and  you  go  quietly  down  to 
Surrey  and  confront  your  father  with  that  story  to 
tell  to  him  !  You  do  not  even  write  !  You  stand  up 
and  tell  it  to  him  face  to  face !  Harry,  I  reckon  my- 
self as  good  as  another  when  it  comes  to  bravery,  but 
for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  have  done  that." 

"  It  was  not  —  pleasant,"  said  Feversham,  simply  ; 
and  this  was  the  only  description  of  the  interview 
between  father  and  son  which  was  vouchsafed  to  any 
one.  But  Lieutenant  Sutch  knew  the  father  and 
knew  the  son.  He  could  guess  at  all  which  that  one 
adjective  implied.  Harry  Feversham  told  the  results 
of  his  journey  into  Surrey. 

"  My  father  continues  my  allowance.  I  shall  need 
it,  every  penny  of  it  —  otherwise  I  should  have  taken 
nothing.  But  I  am  not  to  go  home  again.  I  did  not 
mean  to  go  home  for  a  long  while  in  any  case,  if  at  all." 

He  drew  his  pocket-book  from  his  breast,  and  took 
from  it  the  four  white  feathers.  These  he  laid  before 
him  on  the  table. 

"  You  have  kept  them  ? "  exclaimed  Sutch. 

"  Indeed,  I  treasure  them,"  said  Harry,  quietly. 
"  That  seems  strange  to  you.  To  you  they  are  the 
symbols  of  my  disgrace.  To  me  they  are  much  more. 
They  are  my  opportunities  of  retrieving  it."  He 
looked  about  the  room,  separated  three  of  the  feathers, 


HARRY  FEVERSHAM'S   PLAN  67 

pushed  them  forward  a  little  on  the  table-cloth,  and 
then  leaned  across  toward  Sutch. 

"  What  if  I  could  compel  Trench,  Castleton,  and 
Willoughby  to  take  back  from  me,  each  in  his  turn, 
the  feather  he  sent  ?  I  do  not  say  that  it  is  likely. 
I  do  not  say  even  that  it  is  possible.  But  there  is  a 
chance  that  it  may  be  possible,  and  I  must  wait  upon 
that  chance.  There  will  be  few  men  leading  active 
lives  as  these  three  do  who  will  not  at  some  moment 
stand  in  great  peril  and  great  need.  To  be  in  readi- 
ness for  that  moment  is  from  now  my  career.  All 
three  are  in  Egypt.     I  leave  for  Egypt  to-morrow." 

Upon  the  face  of  Lieutenant  Sutch  there  came  a 
look  of  great  and  unexpected  happiness.  Here  was 
an  issue  of  which  he  had  never  thought ;  and  it  was  the 
only  issue,  as  he  knew  for  certain,  once  he  was  aware 
of  it.  This  student  of  human  nature  disregarded 
without  a  scruple  the  prudence  and  the  calculation 
proper  to  the  character  which  he  assumed.  The  ob- 
stacles in  Harry  Feversham's  way,  the  possibility 
that  at  the  last  moment  he  might  shrink  again,  the 
improbability  that  three  such  opportunities  would  oc- 
cur—  these  matters  he  overlooked.  His  eyes  already 
shone  with  pride;  the  three  feathers  for  him  were 
already  taken  back.  The  prudence  was  on  Harry 
Feversham's  side. 

"  There  are  endless  difficulties,"  he  said.  "  Just  to 
cite  one :  I  am  a  civilian,  these  three  are  soldiers, 
surrounded  by  soldiers  ;  so  much  the  less  opportunity 
therefore  for  a  civilian." 

"  But  it  is  not  necessary  that  the  three  men  should 
be  themselves  in  peril,"  objected  Sutch,  "for  you  to 
convince  them  that  the  fault  is  retrieved." 


68  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  Oh,  no.  There  may  be  other  ways,"  agreed 
Feversham.  "  The  plan  came  suddenly  into  my 
mind,  indeed  at  the  moment  when  Ethne  bade  me 
take  up  the  feathers,  and  added  the  fourth.  I  was 
on  the  point  of  tearing  them  across  when  this  way 
out  of  it  sprang  clearly  up  in  my  mind.  But  I  have 
thought  it  over  since  during  these  last  weeks  while  I 
sat  listening  to  the  bugles  in  the  barrack-yard.  And 
I  am  sure  there  is  no  other  way.  But  it  is  well  worth 
trying.  You  see,  if  the  three  take  back  their  feathers," 
—  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  in  a  very  low  voice, 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  table  so  that  his  face  was  hid- 
den from  Sutch,  he  added  —  "  why,  then  she  perhaps 
might  take  hers  back  too." 

"  Will  she  wait,  do  you  think  ? "  asked  Sutch  ;  and 
Harry  raised  his  head  quickly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  had  no  thought  of  that. 
She  has  not  even  a  suspicion  of  what  I  intend  to  do. 
Nor  do  I  wish  her  to  have  one  until  the  intention  is 
fulfilled.  My  thought  was  different "  —  and  he  began 
to  speak  with  hesitation  for  the  first  time  in  the  course 
of  that  evening.  "I  find  it  difficult  to  tell  you  — 
Ethne  said  something  to  me  the  day  before  the 
feathers  came  —  something  rather  sacred.  I  think 
that  I  will  tell  you,  because  what  she  said  is  just 
what  sends  me  out  upon  this  errand.  But  for  her 
words,  I  would  very  likely  never  have  thought  of  it. 
I  find  in  them  my  motive  and  a  great  hope.  They 
may  seem  strange  to  you,  Mr.  Sutch ;  but  I  ask 
you  to  believe  that  they  are  very  real  to  me.  She 
said  —  it  was  when  she  knew  no  more  than  that  my 
regiment  was  ordered  to  Egypt  —  she  was  blaming 
herself  because  I  had  resigned  my  commission,  for 


HARRY  FEVERSHAM' S  PLAN  69 

which  there  was  no  need,  because  —  and  these  were 
her  words  —  because  had  I  fallen,  although  she  would 
have  felt  lonely  all  her  life,  she  would  none  the  less 
have  surely  known  that  she  and  I  would  see  much  of 
one  another  —  afterwards." 

Feversham  had  spoken  his  words  with  difficulty, 
not  looking  at  his  companion,  and  he  continued  with 
his  eyes  still  averted  :  — 

"  Do  you  understand  ?  I  have  a  hope  that  if  — 
this  fault  can  be  repaired,"  —  and  he  pointed  to  the 
feathers,  —  "  we  might  still,  perhaps,  see  something 
of  one  another  —  afterwards." 

It  was  a  strange  proposition,  no  doubt,  to  be  debated 
across  the  soiled  table-cloth  of  a  public  restaurant,  but 
neither  of  them  felt  it  to  be  strange  or  even  fanciful. 
They  were  dealing  with  the  simple  serious  issues, 
and  they  had  reached  a  point  where  they  could  not 
be  affected  by  any  incongruity  in  their  surroundings. 
Lieutenant  Sutch  did  not  speak  for  some  while  after 
Harry  Feversham  had  done,  and  in  the  end  Harry 
looked  up  at  his  companion,  prepared  for  almost  a 
word  of  ridicule ;  but  he  saw  Sutch's  right  hand  out- 
stretched towards  him. 

"When  I  come  back,"  said  Feversham,  and  he  rose 
from  his  chair.  He  gathered  the  feathers  together 
and  replaced  them  in  his  pocket-book. 

"  I  have  told  you  everything,"  he  said.  "  You  see, 
I  wait  upon  chance  opportunities  ;  the  three  may  not 
come  in  Egypt.  They  may  never  come  at  all,  and  in 
that  case  I  shall  not  come  back  at  all.  Or  they  may 
come  only  at  the  very  end  and  after  many  years. 
Therefore  I  thought  that  I  would  like  just  one  person 
to  know  the  truth  thoroughly  in  case  I  do  not  come 


7o  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

back.  If  you  hear  definitely  that  I  never  can 
come  back,  I  would  be  glad  if  you  would  tell  my 
father." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Sutch. 

"But  don't  tell  him  everything  —  I  mean,  not  the 
last  part,  not  what  I  have  just  said  about  Ethne  and 
my  chief  motive,  for  I  do  not  think  that  he  would 
understand.  Otherwise  you  will  keep  silence  alto- 
gether.    Promise !  " 

Lieutenant  Sutch  promised,  but  with  an  absent  face, 
and  Feversham  consequently  insisted. 

"  You  will  breathe  no  word  of  this  to  man  or  woman, 
however  hard  you  may  be  pressed,  except  to  my 
father  under  the  circumstances  which  I  have  ex- 
plained," said  Feversham. 

Lieutenant  Sutch  promised  a  second  time  and  with- 
out an  instant's  hesitation.  It  was  quite  natural  that 
Harry  should  lay  some  stress  upon  the  pledge,  since 
any  disclosure  of  his  purpose  might  very  well  wear  the 
appearance  of  a  foolish  boast,  and  Sutch  himself  saw 
no  reason  why  he  should  refuse  it.  So  he  gave  the 
promise  and  fettered  his  hands.  His  thoughts,  indeed, 
were  occupied  with  the  limit  Harry  had  set  upon  the 
knowledge  which  was  to  be  imparted  to  General 
Feversham.  Even  if  he  died  with  his  mission  unful- 
filled, Sutch  was  to  hide  from  the  father  that  which 
was  best  in  the  son,  at  the  son's  request.  And  the 
saddest  part  of  it,  to  Sutch's  thinking,  was  that  the 
son  was  right  in  so  requesting.  For  what  he  said 
was  true  —  the  father  could  not  understand.  Lieu- 
tenant Sutch  was  brought  back  to  the  causes  of  the 
whole  miserable  business  :  the  premature  death  of 
the  mother,  who  could  have  understood ;  the  want  of 


HARRY  FEVERSHAM' 5   PLAN  7i 

comprehension  in  the  father,  who  was  left ;  and  his 
own  silence  on  the  Crimean  night  at  Broad  Place. 

"  If  only  I  had  spoken,"  he  said  sadly.  He  dropped 
the  end  of  his  cigar  into  his  coffee-cup,  and  standing 
up,  reached  for  his  hat.  "  Many  things  are  irrevoca- 
ble, Harry,"  he  said,  "  but  one  never  knows  whether 
they  are  irrevocable  or  not  until  one  has  found  out. 
It  is  always  worth  while  finding  out." 

The  next  evening  Feversham  crossed  to  Calais.  It 
was  a  night  as  wild  as  that  on  which  Durrance  had  left 
England  ;  and,  like  Durrance,  Feversham  had  a  friend 
to  see  him  off,  for  the  last  thing  which  his  eyes  be- 
held as  the  packet  swung  away  from  the  pier,  was  the 
face  of  Lieutenant  Sutch  beneath  a  gas-lamp.  The 
lieutenant  maintained  his  position  after  the  boat  had 
passed  into  the  darkness  and  until  the  throb  of  its 
paddles  could  no  longer  be  heard.  Then  he  limped 
through  the  rain  to  his  hotel,  aware,  and  regretfully 
aware,  that  he  was  growing  old.  It  was  long  since 
he  had  felt  regret  on  that  account,  and  the  feeling 
was  very  strange  to  him.  Ever  since  the  Crimea  he 
had  been  upon  the  world's  half-pay  list,  as  he  had 
once  said  to  General  Feversham,  and  what  with  that 
and  the  recollection  of  a  certain  magical  season  before 
the  Crimea,  he  had  looked  forward  to  old  age  as  an 
approaching  friend.  To-night,  however,  he  prayed 
that  he  might  live  just  long  enough  to  welcome  back 
Muriel  Graham's  son  with  his  honour  redeemed  and 
his  great  fault  atoned. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE    LAST    RECONNAISSANCE 


« 


No  one,"  said  Durrance,  and  he  strapped  his 
field-glasses  into  the  leather  case  at  his  side. 

"  No  one,  sir,"  Captain  Mather  agreed. 

"  We  will  move  forward." 

The  scouts  went  on  ahead,  the  troops  resumed 
their  formation,  the  two  seven-pounder  mountain- 
guns  closed  up  behind,  and  Durrance's  detachment 
of  the  Camel  Corps  moved  down  from  the  gloomy 
ridge  of  Khor  Gwob,  thirty-five  miles  southwest  of 
Suakin,  into  the  plateau  of  Sinkat.  It  was  the  last 
reconnaissance  in  strength  before  the  evacuation  of 
the  eastern  Soudan. 

All  through  that  morning  the  camels  had  jolted 
slowly  up  the  gulley  of  shale  between  red  precipitous 
rocks,  and  when  the  rocks  fell  back,  between  red 
mountain-heaps  all  crumbled  into  a  desolation  of 
stones.  Hardly  a  patch  of  grass  or  the  ragged 
branches  of  a  mimosa  had  broken  the  monotony  of 
ruin.  And  after  that  arid  journey  the  green  bushes 
of  Sinkat  in  the  valley  below  comforted  the  eye  with 
the  pleasing  aspect  of  a  park.  The  troopers  sat  their 
saddles  with  a  greater  alertness. 

They  moved  in  a  diagonal  line  across  the  plateau 
toward  the  mountains  of  Erkoweet,  a  silent  company 
on  a  plain  still  more  silent.      It  was  eleven  o'clock. 

72 


THE   LAST  RECONNAISSANCE  73 

The  sun  rose  toward  the  centre  of  a  colourless, 
cloudless  sky,  the  shadows  of  the  camels  shortened 
upon  the  sand,  and  the  sand  itself  glistened  white  as 
a  beach  of  the  Scilly  Islands.  There  was  no  draught 
of  air  that  morning  to  whisper  amongst  the  rich 
foliage,  and  the  shadows  of  the  branches  lay  so  dis- 
tinct and  motionless  upon  the  ground  that  they  might 
themselves  have  been  branches  strewn  there  on  some 
past  day  by  a  storm.  The  only  sounds  that  were 
audible  were  the  sharp  clank  of  weapons,  the  soft 
ceaseless  padding  of  the  camels'  feet,  and  at  times 
the  whirr  of  a  flight  of  pigeons  disturbed  by  the  ap- 
proaching cavalcade.  Yet  there  was  life  on  the 
plateau,  though  of  a  noiseless  kind.  For  as  the 
leaders  rode  along  the  curves  of  sand,  trim  and 
smooth  between  the  shrubs  like  carriage  drives,  they 
would  see  from  time  to  time,  far  ahead  of  them,  a 
herd  of  gazelle  start  up  from  the  ground  and  race 
silently,  a  flash  of  dappled  brown  and  white,  to  the 
enclosing  hills.  It  seemed  that  here  was  a  country 
during  this  last  hour  created. 

"  Yet  this  way  the  caravans  passed  southwards  to 
Erkoweet  and  the  Khor  Baraka.  Here  the  Suakis 
built  their  summer-houses,"  said  Durrance,  answering 
the  thought  in  his  mind. 

"  And  there  Tewfik  fought,  and  died  with  his  four 
hundred  men,"  said  Mather,  pointing  forward. 

For  three  hours  the  troops  marched  across  the 
plateau.  It  was  the  month  of  May,  and  the  sun 
blazed  upon  them  with  an  intolerable  heat.  They 
had  long  since  lost  their  alertness.  They  rode  rock- 
ing drowsily  in  their  saddles  and  prayed  for  the 
evening  and   the    silver  shine  of  stars.       For  three 


74  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

hours  the  camels  went  mincing  on  with  their  queer 
smirking  motions  of  the  head,  and  then  quite  sud- 
denly a  hundred  yards  ahead  Durrance  saw  a  broken 
wall  with  window-spaces  which  let  the  sky  through. 

11  The  fort,"  said  he. 

Three  years  had  passed  since  Osman  Digna  had 
captured  and  destroyed  it,  but  during  these  three 
years  its  roofless  ruins  had  sustained  another  siege, 
and  one  no  less  persistent.  The  quick-growing  trees 
had  so  closely  girt  and  encroached  upon  it  to  the  rear 
and  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  that  the  traveller 
came  upon  it  unexpectedly,  as  Childe  Roland  upon  the 
Dark  Tower  in  the  plain.  In  the  front,  however,  the 
sand  still  stretched  open  to  the  wells,  where  three 
great  Gemeiza  trees  of  dark  and  spreading  foliage 
stood  spaced  like  sentinels. 

In  the  shadow  to  the  right  front  of  the  fort,  where 
the  bushes  fringed  the  open  sand  with  the  level  regu- 
larity of  a  river  bank,  the  soldiers  unsaddled  their 
camels  and  prepared  their  food.  Durrance  and  Cap- 
tain Mather  walked  round  the  fort,  and  as  they  came 
to  the  southern  corner,  Durrance  stopped. 

"Hallo!"  said  he. 

"  Some  Arab  has  camped  here,"  said  Mather, 
stopping  in  his  turn.  The  grey  ashes  of  a  wood  fire 
lay  in  a  little  heap  upon  a  blackened  stone. 

"  And  lately,"  said  Durrance. 

Mather  walked  on,  mounted  a  few  rough  steps  to 
the  crumbled  archway  of  the  entrance,  and  passed 
into  the  unroofed  corridors  and  rooms.  Durrance 
turned  the  ashes  over  with  his  boot.  The  stump  of 
a  charred  and  whitened  twig  glowed  red.  Durrance 
set  his  foot  upon  it,  and  a  tiny  thread  of  smoke 
spurted  into  the  air. 


THE   LAST  RECONNAISSANCE  75 

"  Very  lately,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  he  followed 
Mather  into  the  fort.  In  the  corners  of  the  mud  walls, 
in  any  fissure,  in  the  very  floor,  young  trees  were 
sprouting.  Rearward  a  steep  glacis  and  a  deep 
fosse  defended  the  works.  Durrance  sat  himself 
down  upon  the  parapet  of  the  wall  above  the  glacis, 
while  the  pigeons  wheeled  and  circled  overhead, 
thinking  of  the  long  months  during  which  Tewfik 
must  daily  have  strained  his  eyes  from  this  very  spot 
toward  the  pass  over  the  hills  from  Suakin,  looking 
as  that  other  general  far  to  the  south  had  done,  for 
the  sunlight  flashing  on  the  weapons  of  the  help 
which  did  not  come.  Mather  sat  by  his  side  and 
reflected  in  quite  another  spirit. 

"  Already  the  Guards  are  steaming  out  through  the 
coral  reefs  toward  Suez.  A  week  and  our  turn 
comes,"  he  said.     " What  a  God-forsaken  country!" 

"  I  come  back  to  it,"  said  Durrance. 

«  Why  ? " 

"  I  like  it.     I  like  the  people." 

Mather  thought  the  taste  unaccountable,  but  he 
knew  nevertheless  that,  however  unaccountable  in 
itself,  it  accounted  for  his  companion's  rapid  promo- 
tion and  success.  Sympathy  had  stood  Durrance  in 
the  stead  of  much  ability.  Sympathy  had  given  him 
patience  and  the  power  to  understand,  so  that  during 
these  three  years  of  campaign  he  had  left  far  quicker 
and  far  abler  men  behind  him,  in  his  knowledge  of 
the  sorely  harassed  tribes  of  the  eastern  Soudan.  He 
liked  them  ;  he  could  enter  into  their  hatred  of  the  old 
Turkish  rule,  he  could  understand  their  fanaticism, 
and  their  pretence  of  fanaticism  under  the  compulsion 
of  Osman  Digna's  hordes. 


76  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"Yes,  I  shall  come  back,"  he  said,  "and  in  three 
months'  time.  For  one  thing,  we  know  —  every 
Englishman  in  Egypt,  too,  knows  —  that  this  can't  be 
the  end.  I  want  to  be  here  when  the  work's  taken 
in  hand  again.     I  hate  unfinished  things." 

The  sun  beat  relentlessly  upon  the  plateau ;  the 
men,  stretched  in  the  shade,  slept ;  the  afternoon  was 
as  noiseless  as  the  morning ;  Durrance  and  Mather 
sat  for  some  while  compelled  to  silence  by  the  silence 
surrounding  them.  But  Durrance's  eyes  turned  at 
last  from  the  amphitheatre  of  hills ;  they  lost  their 
abstraction,  they  became  intently  fixed  upon  the 
shrubbery  beyond  the  glacis.  He  was  no  longer 
recollecting  Tewfik  Bey  and  his  heroic  defence,  or 
speculating  upon  the  work  to  be  done  in  the  years 
ahead.  Without  turning  his  head,  he  saw  that  Mather 
was  gazing  in  the  same  direction  as  himself. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  he  asked  sud- 
denly of  Mather. 

Mather  laughed,  and  answered  thoughtfully :  — 

"  I  was  drawing  up  the  menu  of  the  first  dinner  I 
will  have  when  I  reach  London.  I  will  eat  it  alone, 
I  think,  quite  alone,  and  at  Epitaux.  It  will  begin 
with  a  watermelon.     And  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  wondering  why,  now  that  the  pigeons  have 
got  used  to  our  presence,  they  should  still  be  wheel- 
ing in  and  out  of  one  particular  tree.  Don't  point  to 
it,  please !  I  mean  the  tree  beyond  the  ditch,  and  to 
the  right  of  two  small  bushes." 

All  about  them  they  could  see  the  pigeons  quietly 
perched  upon  the  branches,  spotting  the  foliage  like 
a  purple  fruit.  Only  above  the  one  tree  they  circled 
and  timorously  called. 


THE   LAST  RECONNAISSANCE  77 

"  We  will  draw  that  covert,"  said  Durrance.  "  Take 
a  dozen  men  and  surround  it  quietly." 

He  himself  remained  on  the  glacis  watching  the 
tree  and  the  thick  undergrowth.  He  saw  six  soldiers 
creep  round  the  shrubbery  from  the  left,  six  more 
from  the  right.  But  before  they  could  meet  and 
ring  the  tree  in,  he  saw  the  branches  violently  shaken, 
and  an  Arab  with  a  roll  of  yellowish  dammar  wound 
about  his  waist,  and  armed  with  a  flat-headed  spear 
and  a  shield  of  hide,  dashed  from  the  shelter  and  raced 
out  between  the  soldiers  into  the  open  plain.  He  ran 
for  a  few  yards  only.  For  Mather  gave  a  sharp  order 
to  his  men,  and  the  Arab,  as  though  he  understood 
that  order,  came  to  a  stop  before  a  rifle  could  be 
lifted  to  a  shoulder.  He  walked  quietly  back  to 
Mather.  He  was  brought  up  on  to  the  glacis, 
where  he  stood  before  Durrance  without  insolence 
or  servility. 

He  explained  in  Arabic  that  he  was  a  man  of  the 
Kababish  tribe  named  Abou  Fatma,  and  friendly  to 
the  English.     He  was  on  his  way  to  Suakin. 

"  Why  did  you  hide  ?  "  asked  Durrance. 

"  It  was  safer.  I  knew  you  for  my  friends.  But, 
my  gentleman,  did  you  know  me  for  yours  ? " 

Then  Durrance  said  quickly,  "  You  speak  English," 
and  Durrance  spoke  in  English. 

The  answer  came  without  hesitation. 

"  I  know  a  few  words." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  them  ?  " 

"  In  Khartum." 

Thereafter  he  was  left  alone  with  Durrance  on  the 
glacis,  and  the  two  men  talked  together  for  the  best 
part  of  an  hour.     At  the  end  of  that  time  the  Arab 


78  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

was  seen  to  descend  the  glacis,  cross  the  trench,  and 
proceed  toward  the  hills.  Durrance  gave  the  order 
for  the  resumption  of  the  march. 

The  water-tanks  were  filled,  the  men  replenished 
their  zamshyehs,  knowing  that  of  all  thirsts  in  this 
v/orld  the  afternoon  thirst  is  the  very  worst,  saddled 
their  camels,  and  mounted  to  the  usual  groaning  and 
snarling.  The  detachment  moved  northwestward 
from  Sinkat,  at  an  acute  angle  to  its  morning's  march. 
It  skirted  the  hills  opposite  to  the  pass  from  which 
it  had  descended  in  the  morning.  The  bushes  grew 
sparse.  It  came  into  a  black  country  of  stones 
scantily  relieved  by  yellow  tasselled  mimosas. 

Durrance  called  Mather  to  his  side. 

"  That  Arab  had  a  strange  story  to  tell  me.  He 
was  Gordon's  servant  in  Khartum.  At  the  beginning 
of  1884,  eighteen  months  ago  in  fact,  Gordon  gave 
him  a  letter  which  he  was  to  take  to  Berber,  whence 
the  contents  were  to  be  telegraphed  to  Cairo.  But 
\y  Berber  had  just  fallen  when  the  messenger  arrived 
there.  He  was  seized  upon  and  imprisoned  the  day 
after  his  arrival.  But  during  the  one  day  which  he 
had  free  he  hid  the  letter  in  the  wall  of  a  house,  and 
so  far  as  he  knows  it  has  not  been  discovered." 

"  He  would  have  been  questioned  if  it  had  been," 
said  Mather. 

"  Precisely,  and  he  was  not  questioned.  He 
escaped  from  Berber  at  night,  three  weeks  ago.  The 
story  is  curious,  eh  ?  " 

"  And  the  letter  still  remains  in  the  wall  ?  It  is 
curious.     Perhaps  the  man  was  telling  lies." 

"  He  had  the  chain  mark  on  his  ankles,"  said  Dur- 
rance. 


THE   LAST  RECONNAISSANCE  79 

The  cavalcade  turned  to  the  left  into  the  hills  on 
the  northern  side  of  the  plateau,  and  climbed  again 
over  shale. 

"  A  letter  from  Gordon,"  said  Durrance,  in  a  mus- 
ing voice,  "  scribbled  perhaps  upon  the  roof-top  of 
his  palace,  by  the  side  of  his  great  telescope  —  a 
sentence  written  in  haste,  and  his  eye  again  to  the 
lens,  searching  over  the  palm  trees  for  the  smoke  of 
the  steamers  —  and  it  comes  down  the  Nile  to  be  buried 
in  a  mud  wall  in  Berber.  Yes,  it's  curious,"  and  he 
turned  his  face  to  the  west  and  the  sinking  sun.  Even 
as  he  looked,  the  sun  dipped  behind  the  hills.  The 
sky  above  his  head  darkened  rapidly  to  violet ;  in 
the  west  it  flamed  a  glory  of  colours  rich  and  irides- 
cent. The  colours  lost  their  violence  and  blended 
delicately  into  one  rose  hue,  the  rose  lingered  for  a 
little,  and,  fading  in  its  turn,  left  a  sky  of  the  purest 
emerald  green  transfused  with  light  from  beneath  rim 
of  the  world. 

"  If  only  they  had  let  us  go  last  year  westward  to 
the  Nile,"  he  said  with  a  sort  of  passion.  "  Before 
Khartum  had  fallen,  before  Berber  had  surrendered. 
But  they  would  not." 

The  magic  of  the  sunset  was  not  at  all  in  Durrance's 
thoughts.  The  story  of  the  letter  had  struck  upon  a 
chord  of  reverence  within  him.  He  was  occupied 
with  the  history  of  that  honest,  great,  impracticable 
soldier,  who,  despised  by  officials  and  thwarted  by 
intrigues,  a  man  of  few  ties  and  much  loneliness,  had 
gone  unflaggingly  about  his  work,  knowing  the  while 
that  the  moment  his  back  was  turned  the  work  was  in 
an  instant  all  undone. 

Darkness  came  upon  the  troops,  the  camels  quick- 


ie 


80  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

ened  their  pace,  the  cicadas  shrilled  from  every  tuft 
of  grass.  The  detachment  moved  down  toward  the 
well  of  Disibil.  Durrance  lay  long  awake  that  night 
on  his  camp  bedstead  spread  out  beneath  the  stars. 
He  forgot  the  letter  in  the  mud  wall.  Southward 
the  Southern  Cross  hung  slanting  in  the  sky,  above 
him  glittered  the  curve  of  the  Great  Bear.  In  a  week 
he  would  sail  for  England  ;  he  lay  awake,  counting  up 
the  years  since  the  packet  had  cast  off  from  Dover 
pier,  and  he  found  that  the  tale  of  them  was  good. 
Kassassin,  Tel-el-Kebir,  the  rush  down  the  Red  Sea, 
Tokar,  Tamai,  Tamanieb  —  the  crowded  moments 
came  vividly  to  his  mind.  He  thrilled  even  now  at 
the  recollection  of  the  Hadendowas  leaping  and 
stabbing  through  the  breach  of  McNeil's  zareba  six 
miles  from  Suakin  ;  he  recalled  the  obdurate  defence 
of  the  Berkshires,  the  steadiness  of  the  Marines,  the 
rallying  of  the  broken  troops.  The  years  had  been 
good  years,  years  of  plenty,  years  which  had  advanced 
him  to  the  brevet-rank  of  lieutenant-colonel. 

"  A  week  more  —  only  a  week,"  murmured  Mather, 
drowsily. 

"  I  shall  come  back,"  said  Durrance,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Have  you  no  friends  ?  " 

And  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Yes,  I  have  friends.  I  shall  have  three  months 
wherein  to  see  them." 

Durrance  had  written  no  word  to  Harry  Feversham 
during  these  years.  Not  to  write  letters  was  indeed 
a  part  of  the  man.  Correspondence  was  a  difficulty 
to  him.  He  was  thinking  now  that  he  would  surprise 
his  friends  by  a  visit  to  Donegal,  or  he  might  find  them 
perhaps  in  London.     He  would  ride  once  again  in  the 


THE   LAST  RECONNAISSANCE  81 

Row.  But  in  the  end  he  would  come  back.  For  his 
friend  was  married,  and  to  Ethne  Eustace,  and  as 
for  himself  his  life's  work  lay  here  in  the  Soudan.  He 
would  certainly  come  back.  And  so,  turning  on  his 
side,  he  slept  dreamlessly  while  the  hosts  of  the  stars 
trampled  across  the  heavens  above  his  head. 


Now,  at  this  moment  Abou  Fatma  of  the  Kababish 
tribe  was  sleeping  under  a  boulder  on  the  Khor  Gwob. 
He  rose  early  and  continued  along  the  broad  plains 
to  the  white  city  of  Suakin.  There  he  repeated  the 
story  which  he  had  told  to  Durrance  to  one  Captain 
Willoughby,  who  was  acting  for  the  time  as  deputy- 
governor.  After  he  had  come  from  the  Palace  he 
told  his  story  again,  but  this  time  in  the  native  bazaar. 
He  told  it  in  Arabic,  and  it  happened  that  a  Greek 
seated  outside  a  cafe  close  at  hand  overheard  some- 
thing of  what  was  said.  The  Greek  took  Abou 
Fatma  aside,  and  with  a  promise  of  much  merissa, 
wherewith  to  intoxicate  himself,  induced  him  to  tell  it 
a  fourth  time  and  very  slowly. 

"  Could  you  find  the  house  again  ? "  asked  the 
Greek. 

Abou  Fatma  had  no  doubts  upon  that  score.  He 
proceeded  to  draw  diagrams  in  the  dust,  not  knowing 
that  during  his  imprisonment  the  town  of  Berber  had 
been  steadily  pulled  down  by  the  Mahdists  and  rebuilt 
to  the  north. 

"  It  will  be  wise  to  speak  of  this  to  no  one  except 
me,"  said  the  Greek,  jingling  some  significant  dollars, 
and  for  a  long  while  the  two  men  talked  secretly 
together.     The  Greek  happened  to  be  Harry  Fever- 


82  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

sham,  whom  Durrance  was  proposing  to  visit  in 
Donegal.  Captain  Willoughby  was  Deputy-Governor 
of  Suakin,  and  after  three  years  of  waiting  one  of 
Harry  Feversham's  opportunities  had  come. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LIEUTENANT    SUTCH    IS    TEMPTED    TO    LIE 

Durrance  reached  London  one  morning  in  June, 
and  on  that  afternoon  took  the  first  walk  of  the  exile, 
into  Hyde  Park,  where  he  sat  beneath  the  trees 
marvelling  at  the  grace  of  his  countrywomen  and 
the  delicacy  of  their  apparel,  a  solitary  figure,  sun- 
burnt and  stamped  already  with  that  indefinable 
expression  of  the  eyes  and  face  which  marks  the  men 
set  apart  in  the  distant  corners  of  the  world.  Amongst 
the  people  who  strolled  past  him,  one,  however,  smiled, 
and,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair,  Mrs.  Adair  came  to 
his  side.  She  looked  him  over  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  quick  and  almost  furtive  glance  which  might 
have  told  even  Durrance  something  of  the  place  which 
he  held  in  her  thoughts.  She  was  comparing  him 
with  the  picture  which  she  had  of  him  now  three  years 
old.  She  was  looking  for  the  small  marks  of  change 
which  those  three  years  might  have  brought  about, 
and  with  eyes  of  apprehension.  But  Durrance  only 
noticed  that  she  was  dressed  in  black.  She  under- 
stood the  question  in  his  mind  and  answered  it. 

"  My  husband  died  eighteen  months  ago,"  she 
explained  in  a  quiet  voice.  "He  was  thrown  from 
his  horse  during  a  run  with  the  Pytchley.  He  was 
killed  at  once." 

83 


84  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

" 1  had  not  heard,"  Durrance  answered  awkwardly. 
"  I  am  very  sorry." 

Mrs.  Adair  took  a  chair  beside  him  and  did  not 
reply.  She  was  a  woman  of  perplexing  silences ; 
and  her  pale  and  placid  face,  with  its  cold  correct 
outline,  gave  no  clue  to  the  thoughts  with  which  she 
occupied  them.  She  sat  without  stirring.  Durrance 
was  embarrassed.  He  remembered  Mr.  Adair  as  a 
good-humoured  man,  whose  one  chief  quality  was  his 
evident  affection  for  his  wife,  but  with  what  eyes  the 
wife  had  looked  upon  him  he  had  never  up  till  now 
considered.  Mr.  Adair  indeed  had  been  at  the  best 
a  shadowy  figure  in  that  small  household,  and  Dur- 
rance found  it  difficult  even  to  draw  upon  his  recol- 
lections for  any  full  expression  of  regret.  He  gave 
up  the  attempt  and  asked  :  — 

"  Are  Harry  Feversham  and  his  wife  in  town  ? " 

Mrs.  Adair  was  slow  to  reply. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  but  immediately 
she  corrected  herself,  and  said  a  little  hurriedly,  "  I 
mean  —  the  marriage  never  took  place." 

Durrance  was  not  a  man  easily  startled,  and  even 
when  he  was,  his  surprise  was  not  expressed  in 
exclamations. 

"  I  don't  think  that  I  understand.  Why  did  it 
never  take  place  ? "  he  asked.  Mrs.  Adair  looked 
sharply  at  him,  as  though  inquiring  for  the  reason 
of  his  deliberate  tones. 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  she  said.  "  Ethne  can  keep 
a  secret  if  she  wishes,"  and  Durrance  nodded  his 
assent.  "  The  marriage  was  broken  off  on  the  night 
of  a  dance  at  Lennon  House." 

Durrance  turned  at  once  to  her. 


LIEUTENANT  SUTCH   TEMPTED   TO  LIE     85 

"Just  before  I  left  England  three  years  ago?" 

"  Yes.     Then  you  knew  ?  " 

"  No.  Only  you  have  explained  to  me  something 
which  occurred  on  the  very  night  that  I  left  Dover. 
What  has  become  of  Harry  ?  " 

Mrs.  Adair  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  have  met  no  one  who  does 
know.  I  do  not  think  that  I  have  met  any  one  who 
has  even  seen  him  since  that  time.  He  must  have  left 
England." 

Durrance  pondered  on  this  mysterious  disappear- 
ance. It  was  Harry  Feversham,  then,  whom  he  had 
seen  upon  the  pier  as  the  Channel  boat  cast  off.  The 
man  with  the  troubled  and  despairing  face  was,  after 
all,  his  friend. 

"  And  Miss  Eustace  ? "  he  asked  after  a  pause, 
with  a  queer  timidity.     "  She  has  married  since  ?  " 

Again  Mrs.  Adair  took  her  time  to  reply. 

"  No,"  said  she. 

"  Then  she  is  still  at  Ramelton  ? " 

Mrs.  Adair  shook  her  head. 

"  There  was  a  fire  at  Lennon  House  a  year  ago. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  constable  called  Bastable  ? " 

"  Indeed,  I  did.  He  was  the  means  of  introducing 
me  to  Miss  Eustace  and  her  father.  I  was  travelling 
from  Londonderry  to  Letterkenny.  I  received  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Eustace,  whom  I  did  not  know,  but 
who  knew  from  my  friends  at  Letterkenny  that  I 
was  coming  past  his  house.  He  asked  me  to  stay 
the  night  with  him.  Naturally  enough  I  declined, 
with  the  result  that  Bastable  arrested  me  on  a  magis- 
trate's warrant  as  soon  as  I  landed  from  the  ferry." 

"That  is  the  man,"  said  Mrs.  Adair,  and  she  told 


86  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Durrance  the  history  of  the  fire.  It  appeared  that 
Bastable's  claim  to  Dermod's  friendship  rested  upon 
his  skill  in  preparing  a  particular  brew  of  toddy, 
which  needed  a  single  oyster  simmering  in  the  sauce- 
pan to  give  it  its  perfection  of  flavour.  About  two 
o'clock  of  a  June  morning  the  spirit  lamp  on  which 
the  saucepan  stewed  had  been  overset ;  neither  of 
the  two  confederates  in  drink  had  their  wits  about 
them  at  the  moment,  and  the  house  was  half  burnt 
and  the  rest  of  it  ruined  by  water  before  the  fire 
could  be  got  under. 

"There  were  consequences  still  more  distressing 
than  the  destruction  of  the  house,"  she  continued. 
"  The  fire  was  a  beacon  warning  to  Dermod's  cred- 
itors for  one  thing,  and  Dermod,  already  overpowered 
with  debts,  fell  in  a  day  upon  complete  ruin.  He  was 
drenched  by  the  water  hoses  besides,  and  took  a  chill 
which  nearly  killed  him,  from  the  effects  of  which  he 
has  never  recovered.  You  will  find  him  a  broken  man. 
The  estates  are  let,  and  Ethne  is  now  living  with  her 
father  in  a  little  mountain  village  in  Donegal." 

Mrs.  Adair  had  not  looked  at  Durrance  while  she 
spoke.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  steadily  in  front  of 
her,  and  indeed  she  spoke  without  feeling  on  one  side 
or  the  other,  but  rather  like  a  person  constraining  her- 
self to  speech  because  speech  was  a  necessity.  Nor 
did  she  turn  to  look  at  Durrance  when  she  had  done. 

"  So  she  has  lost  everything  ?  "  said  Durrance. 

"  She  still  has  a  home  in  Donegal,"  returned  Mrs. 
Adair. 

"  And  that  means  a  great  deal  to  her,"  said  Dur- 
rance, slowly.     "  Yes,  I  think  you  are  right." 

"It   means,"  said    Mrs.  Adair,  "that  Ethne  with 


LIEUTENANT  SUTCH  TEMPTED    TO   LIE     87 

all  her  ill-luck  has  reason  to  be  envied  by  many 
other  women." 

Durrance  did  not  answer  that  suggestion  directly. 
He  watched  the  carriages  drive  past,  he  listened  to 
the  chatter  and  the  laughter  of  the  people  about  him, 
his  eyes  were  refreshed  by  the  women  in  their  light- 
coloured  frocks ;  and  all  the  time  his  slow  mind  was 
working  toward  the  lame  expression  of  his  philoso- 
phy. Mrs.  Adair  turned  to  him  with  a  slight  impa- 
tience in  the  end. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  "  she  asked. 

"That  women  suffer  much  more  than  men  when 
the  world  goes  wrong  with  them,"  he  answered,  and 
the  answer  was  rather  a  question  than  a  definite  as- 
sertion. "  I  know  very  little,  of  course.  I  can  only 
guess.  But  I  think  women  gather  up  into  themselves 
what  they  have  been  through  much  more  than  we 
do.  To  them  what  is  past  becomes  a  real  part  of 
them,  as  much  a  part  of  them  as  a  limb ;  to  us  it's 
always  something  external,  at  the  best  the  rung  of  a 
ladder,  at  the  worst  a  weight  on  the  heel.  Don't  you 
think  so,  too  ?  I  phrase  the  thought  badly.  But  put 
it  this  way  :  Women  look  backwards,  we  look  ahead ; 
so  misfortune  hits  them  harder,  eh  ?  " 

Mrs.  Adair  answered  in  her  own  way.  She  did 
not  expressly  agree.  But  a  certain  humility  became 
audible  in  her  voice. 

"  The  mountain  village  at  which  Ethne  is  living," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  is  called  Glenalla.  A  track 
strikes  up  towards  it  from  the  road  halfway  between 
Rathmullen  and  Ramelton."  She  rose  as  she  fin- 
ished the  sentence  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  Shall  I 
see  you  ? " 


88  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  You  are  still  in  Hill  Street  ?  "  said  Durrance.  "  I 
shall  be  for  a  time  in  London." 

Mrs.  Adair  raised  her  eyebrows.  She  looked 
always  by  nature  for  the  intricate  and  concealed 
motive,  so  that  conduct  which  sprang  from  a  reason, 
obvious  and  simple,  was  likely  to  baffle  her.  She 
was  baffled  now  by  Durrance's  resolve  to  remain  in 
town.  Why  did  he  not  travel  at  once  to  Donegal,  she 
asked  herself,  since  thither  his  thoughts  undoubtedly 
preceded  him.  She  heard  of  his  continual  presence 
at  his  Service  Club,  and  could  not  understand. 
She  did  not  even  have  a  suspicion  of  his  motive 
when  he  himself  informed  her  that  he  had  travelled 
into  Surrey  and  had  spent  a  day  with  General 
Feversham. 

It  had  been  an  ineffectual  day  for  Durrance.  The 
general  kept  him  steadily  to  the  history  of  the  cam- 
paign from  which  he  had  just  returned.  Only  once 
was  he  able  to  approach  the  topic  of  Harry  Fever- 
sham's  disappearance,  and  at  the  mere  mention  of 
his  son's  name  the  old  general's  face  set  like  plaster. 
It  became  void  of  expression  and  inattentive  as  a 
mask. 

"  We  will  talk  of  something  else,  if  you  please," 
said  he ;  and  Durrance  returned  to  London  not  an 
inch  nearer  to  Donegal. 

Thereafter  he  sat  under  the  great  tree  in  the  inner 
courtyard  of  his  club,  talking  to  this  man  and  to 
that,  and  still  unsatisfied  with  the  conversation.  All 
through  that  June  the  afternoons  and  evenings  found 
him  at  his  post.  Never  a  friend  of  Feversham's 
passed  by  the  tree  but  Durrance  had  a  word  for  him, 
and  the  word  led  always  to  a   question.      But  the 


LIEUTENANT  SUTCH   TEMPTED    TO   LIE     89 

question  elicited  no  answer  except  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  and  a  "  Hanged  if  I  know  !  " 

Harry  Feversham's  place  knew  him  no  more ;  he 
had  dropped  even  out  of  the  speculations  of  his  friends. 

Toward  the  end  of  June,  however,  an  old  retired 
naval  officer  limped  into  the  courtyard,  saw  Durrance, 
hesitated,  and  began  with  a  remarkable  alacrity  to 
move  away. 

Durrance  sprang  up  from  his  seat. 

"  Mr.  Sutch,"  said  he.     "  You  have  forgotten  me  ?  " 

"  Colonel  Durrance,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  embar- 
rassed lieutenant.  "  It  is  some  while  since  we  met, 
but  I  remember  you  very  well  now.  I  think  we  met 
—  let  me  see  —  where  was  it  ?  An  old  man's  mem- 
ory, Colonel  Durrance,  is  like  a  leaky  ship.  It  comes 
to  harbour  with  its  cargo  of  recollections  swamped." 

Neither  the  lieutenant's  present  embarrassment 
nor  his  previous  hesitation  escaped  Durrance's  notice. 

"  We  met  at  Broad  Place,"  said  he.  "I  wish  you 
to  give  me  news  of  my  friend  Feversham.  Why 
was  his  engagement  with  Miss  Eustace  broken  off? 
Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

The  lieutenant's  eyes  gleamed  for  a  moment  with 
satisfaction.  He  had  always  been  doubtful  whether 
Durrance  was  aware  of  Harry's  fall  into  disgrace. 
Durrance  plainly  did  not  know. 

"  There  is  only  one  person  in  the  world,  I  believe," 
said  Sutch,  "  who  can  answer  both  your  questions." 

Durrance  was  in  no  way  disconcerted. 

"Yes.  I  have  waited  here  a  month  for  you,"  he 
replied. 

Lieutenant  Sutch  pushed  his  fingers  through  his 
beard,  and  stared  down  at  his  companion. 


po  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"Well,  it  is  true,"  he  admitted.  "I  can  answer 
your  questions,  but  I  will  not." 

"  Harry  Feversham  is  my  friend." 

"  General  Feversham  is  his  father,  yet  he  knows 
only  half  the  truth.  Miss  Eustace  was  betrothed  to 
him,  and  she  knows  no  more.  I  pledged  my  word  to 
Harry  that  I  would  keep  silence." 

"  It  is  not  curiosity  which  makes  me  ask." 

"  I  am  sure  that,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  friendship," 
said  the  lieutenant,  cordially. 

"  Nor  that  entirely.  There  is  another  aspect  of 
the  matter.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  answer  my  ques- 
tions, but  I  will  put  a  third  one  to  you.  It  is  one 
harder  for  me  to  ask  than  for  you  to  answer.  Would 
a  friend  of  Harry  Feversham  be  at  all  disloyal  to 
that  friendship,  if  "  —  and  Durrance  flushed  beneath 
his  sunburn  — "  if  he  tried  his  luck  with  Miss 
Eustace  ?  " 

The  question  startled  Lieutenant  Sutch. 

"  You  ? "  he  exclaimed,  and  he  stood  considering 
Durrance,  remembering  the  rapidity  of  his  promotion, 
speculating  upon  his  likelihood  to  take  a  woman's 
fancy.  Here  was  an  aspect  of  the  case,  indeed,  to 
which  he  had  not  given  a  thought,  and  he  was  no  less 
troubled  than  startled.  For  there  had  grown  up 
within  him  a  jealousy  on  behalf  of  Harry  Feversham 
as  strong  as  a  mother's  for  a  favourite  second  son. 
He  had  nursed  with  a  most  pleasurable  anticipation 
a  hope  that,  in  the  end,  Harry  would  come  back  to 
all  that  he  once  had  owned,  like  a  rethroned  king. 
He  stared  at  Durrance  and  saw  the  hope  stricken. 
Durrance  looked  the  man  of  courage  which  his  record 
proved  him  to  be,  and  Lieutenant   Sutch   had   his 


LIEUTENANT  SUTCH   TEMPTED    TO   LIE    9c 

theory  of  women.  "  Brute  courage  —  they  make  a 
god  of  it." 

"Well?"  asked  Durrance. 

Lieutenant  Sutch  was  aware  that  he  must  answer. 
He  was  sorely  tempted  to  lie.  For  he  knew  enough 
of  the  man  who  questioned  him  to  be  certain  that  the 
lie  would  have  its  effect.  Durrance  would  go  back 
to  the  Soudan,  and  leave  his  suit  unpressed. 

"  Well  ? " 

Sutch  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  down  upon  the 
flags.  Harry  had  foreseen  that  this  complication 
was  likely  to  occur,  he  had  not  wished  that  Ethne 
should  wait.  Sutch  imagined  him  at  this  very  mo- 
ment, lost  somewhere  under  the  burning  sun,  and 
compared  that  picture  with  the  one  before  his  eyes  — 
the  successful  soldier  taking  his  ease  at  his  club.  He 
felt  inclined  to  break  his  promise,  to  tell  the  whole 
truth,  to  answer  both  the  questions  which  Durrance 
had  first  asked.  And  again  the  pitiless  monosyllable 
demanded  his  reply. 

"Well?" 

"No,"  said  Sutch,  regretfully.  "There  would  be 
no  disloyalty." 

And  on  that  evening  Durrance  took  the  train  for 
Holyhead. 


CHAPTER   IX 


AT    GLENALLA 


The  farm-house  stood  a  mile  above  the  village,  in  a 
wild  moorland  country.  The  heather  encroached 
upon  its  garden,  and  the  bridle-path  ended  at  its 
door.  On  three  sides  an  amphitheatre  of  hills,  which 
changed  so  instantly  to  the  season  that  it  seemed  one 
could  distinguish  from  day  to  day  a  new  gradation  in 
their  colours,  harboured  it  like  a  ship.  No  trees  grew 
upon  those  hills,  the  granite  cropped  out  amidst  the 
moss  and  heather ;  but  they  had  a  friendly  sheltering 
look,  and  Durrance  came  almost  to  believe  that  they 
put  on  their  different  draperies  of  emerald  green,  and 
purple,  and  russet  brown  consciously  to  delight  the 
eyes  of  the  girl  they  sheltered.  The  house  faced  the 
long  slope  of  country  to  the  inlet  of  the  Lough. 
From  the  windows  the  eye  reached  down  over  the 
sparse  thickets,  the  few  tilled  fields,  the  whitewashed 
cottages,  to  the  tall  woods  upon  the  bank,  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  bright  water  and  the  gulls  poising  and 
dipping  above  it.  Durrance  rode  up  the  track  upon 
an  afternoon  and  knew  the  house  at  once.  For  as  he 
approached,  the  music  of  a  violin  floated  towards  him 
from  the  windows  like  a  welcome.  His  hand  was 
checked  upon  the  reins,  and  a  particular  strong  hope, 
about  which  he  had  allowed  his  fancies  to  play,  rose 
up  within  him  and  suspended  his  breath. 

92 


AT  GLENALLA  93 

He  tied  up  his  horse  and  entered  in  at  the  gate. 
A  formless  barrack  without,  the  house  within  was  a 
place  of  comfort.  The  room  into  which  he  was 
shown,  with  its  brasses  and  its  gleaming  oak  and  its 
wide  prospect,  was  bright  as  the  afternoon  itself. 
Durrance  imagined  it,  too,  with  the  blinds  drawn 
upon  a  winter's  night,  and  the  fire  red  on  the  hearth, 
and  the  wind  skirling  about  the  hills  and  rapping  on 
the  panes. 

Ethne  greeted  him  without  the  least  mark  of  sur- 
prise. 

"  I  thought  that  you  would  come,"  she  said,  and  a 
smile  shone  upon  her  face. 

Durrance  laughed  suddenly  as  they  shook  hands, 
and  Ethne  wondered  why.  She  followed  the  direc- 
tion of  his  eyes  towards  the  violin  which  lay  upon  a 
table  at  her  side.  It  was  pale  in  colour ;  there  was  a 
mark,  too,  close  to  the  bridge,  where  a  morsel  of 
worm-eaten  wood  had  been  replaced. 

"It  is  yours,"  she  said.  "You  were  in  Egypt.  I 
could  not  well  send  it  back  to  you  there." 

"  I  have  hoped  lately,  since  I  knew,"  returned 
Durrance,  "that,  nevertheless,  you  would  accept 
it." 

"  You  see  I  have,"  said  Ethne,  and  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes  she  added :  "  I  accepted  it  some  while 
ago.  There  was  a  time  when  I  needed  to  be  assured 
that  I  had  sure  friends.  And  a  thing  tangible  helped. 
I  was  very  glad  to  have  it." 

Durrance  took  the  instrument  from  the  table,  hand- 
ling it  delicately,  like  a  sacred  vessel. 

"  You  have  played  upon  it  ?  The  Musoline  over- 
ture, perhaps,"  said  he. 


94  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"Do  you  remember  that?"  she  returned,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Yes,  I  have  played  upon  it,  but  only  re- 
cently. For  a  long  time  I  put  my  violin  away.  It 
talked  to  me  too  intimately  of  many  things  which  I 
wished  to  forget,"  and  these  words,  like  the  rest,  she 
spoke  without  hesitation  or  any  down-dropping  of  the 
eyes. 

Durrance  fetched  up  his  luggage  from  Rathmullen 
the  next  day,  and  stayed  at  the  farm  for  a  week.  But 
up  to  the  last  hour  of  his  visit  no  further  reference 
was  made  to  Harry  Feversham  by  either  Ethne  or 
Durrance,  although  they  were  thrown  much  into 
each  other's  company.  For  Dermod  was  even  more 
broken  than  Mrs.  Adair's  description  had  led  Dur- 
rance to  expect.  His  speech  was  all  dwindled  to 
monosyllables ;  his  frame  was  shrunken,  and  his 
clothes  bagged  upon  his  limbs ;  his  very  stature 
seemed  lessened ;  even  the  anger  was  clouded  from 
his  eye ;  he  had  become  a  stay-at-home,  dozing  for 
the  most  part  of  the  day  by  a  fire,  even  in  that  July 
weather ;  his  longest  walk  was  to  the  little  grey 
church  which  stood  naked  upon  a  mound  some  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  away  and  within  view  of  the  windows, 
and  even  that  walk  taxed  his  strength.  He  was  an 
old  man  fallen  upon  decrepitude,  and  almost  out  of 
recognition,  so  that  his  gestures  and  the  rare  tones 
of  his  voice  struck  upon  Durrance  as  something  pain- 
ful, like  the  mimicry  of  a  dead  man.  His  collie  dog 
seemed  to  age  in  company,  and,  to  see  them  side  by 
side,  one  might  have  said,  in  sympathy. 

Durrance  and  Ethne  were  thus  thrown  much  to- 
gether. By  day,  in  the  wet  weather  or  the  fine,  they 
tramped  the  hills,  while  she,  with  the  colour  glowing 


AT  GLEN  ALL  A  95 

in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  most  jealous  and  eager, 
showed  him  her  country  and  exacted  his  admiration. 
In  the  evenings  she  would  take  her  violin,  and  sitting 
as  of  old  with  an  averted  face,  she  would  bid  the 
strings  speak  of  the  heights  and  depths.  Durrance 
sat  watching  the  sweep  of  her  arm,  the  absorption  of 
her  face,  and  counting  up  his  chances.  He  had  not 
brought  with  him  to  Glenalla  Lieutenant  Sutch's 
anticipations  that  he  would  succeed.  The  shadow 
of  Harry  Feversham  might  well  separate  them.  For 
another  thing,  he  knew  very  well  that  poverty  would 
fall  more  lightly  upon  her  than  upon  most  women.  He 
had  indeed  had  proofs  of  that.  Though  the  Lennon 
House  was  altogether  ruined,  and  its  lands  gone  from 
her,  Ethne  was  still  amongst  her  own  people.  They 
still  looked  eagerly  for  her  visits ;  she  was  still  the 
princess  of  that  country-side.  On  the  other  hand, 
she  took  a  frank  pleasure  in  his  company,  and  she 
led  him  to  speak  of  his  three  years'  service  in  the 
East.  No  detail  was  too  insignificant  for  her  in- 
quiries, and  while  he  spoke  her  eyes  continually 
sounded  him,  and  the  smile  upon  her  lips  continu- 
ally approved.  Durrance  did  not  understand  what 
she  was  after.  Possibly  no  one  could  have  under- 
stood unless  he  was  aware  of  what  had  passed  be- 
tween Harry  Feversham  and  Ethne.  Durrance  wore 
the  likeness  of  a  man,  and  she  was  anxious  to  make 
sure  that  the  spirit  of  a  man  informed  it.  He  was  a 
dark  lantern  to  her.  There  might  be  a  flame  burn- 
ing within,  or  there  might  be  mere  vacancy  and  dark- 
ness. She  was  pushing  back  the  slide  so  that  she 
might  be  sure. 

She  led  him  to  speak  of  Egypt  upon  the  last  day 


96  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

of  his  visit.  They  were  seated  upon  the  hillside,  on 
the  edge  of  a  stream  which  leaped  from  ledge  to 
ledge  down  a  miniature  gorge  of  rock,  and  flowed 
over  deep  pools  between  the  ledges  very  swiftly,  a 
torrent  of  clear  black  water. 

"  I  travelled  once  for  four  days  amongst  the 
mirages,"  he  said,  —  "lagoons,  still  as  a  mirror  and 
fringed  with  misty  trees.  You  could  almost  walk 
your  camel  up  to  the  knees  in  them,  before  the 
lagoon  receded  and  the  sand  glared  at  you.  And 
one  cannot  imagine  that  glare.  Every  stone  within 
view  dances  and  shakes  like  a  heliograph ;  you  can 
see  —  yes,  actually  see — the  heat  flow  breast  high 
across  the  desert  swift  as  this  stream  here,  only  pel- 
lucid. So  till  the  sun  sets  ahead  of  you  level  with 
your  eyes !  Imagine  the  nights  which  follow  — 
nights  of  infinite  silence,  with  a  cool  friendly  wind 
blowing  from  horizon  to  horizon  —  and  your  bed 
spread  for  you  under  the  great  dome  of  stars.  Oh," 
he  cried,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  "but  that  country 
grows  on  you.  It's  like  the  Southern  Cross  —  four 
overrated  stars  when  first  you  see  them,  but  in  a 
week  you  begin  to  look  for  them,  and  you  miss  them 
when  you  travel  north  again."  He  raised  himself 
upon  his  elbow  and  turned  suddenly  towards  her. 
"Do  you  know — I  can  only  speak  for  myself  — 
but  I  never  feel  alone  in  those  empty  spaces.  On 
the  contrary,  I  always  feel  very  close  to  the  things  I 
care  about,  and  to  the  few  people  I  care  about  too." 

Her  eyes  shone  very  brightly  upon  him,  her  lips 
parted  in  a  smile.  He  moved  nearer  to  her  upon  the 
grass,  and  sat  with  his  feet  gathered  under  him  upon 
one  side,  and  leaning  upon  his  arm. 


AT  GLENALLA  97 

"  I  used  to  imagine  you  out  there,"  he  said.  "  You 
would  have  loved  it  —  from  the  start  before  daybreak, 
in  the  dark,  to  the  camp-fire  at  night.  You  would 
have  been  at  home.  I  used  to  think  so  as  I  lay 
awake  wondering  how  the  world  went  with  my 
friends." 

"  And  you  go  back  there  ? "  she  said. 

Durrance  did  not  immediately  answer.  The  roar 
of  the  torrent  throbbed  about  them.  When  he  did 
speak,  all  the  enthusiasm  had  gone  from  his  voice. 
He  spoke  gazing  into  the  stream. 

"To  Wadi  Haifa.     For  two  years.     I  suppose  so." 

Ethne  kneeled  upon  the  grass  at  his  side. 

"  I  shall  miss  you,"  she  said. 

She  was  kneeling  just  behind  him  as  he  sat  on 
the  ground,  and  again  there  fell  a  silence  between 
them. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  " 

"  That  you  need  not  miss  me,"  he  said,  and  he  was 
aware  that  she  drew  back  and  sank  down  upon  her 
heels.  "  My  appointment  at  Haifa  —  I  might  shorten 
its  term.  I  might  perhaps  avoid  it  altogether.  I 
have  still  half  my  furlough." 

She  did  not  answer  nor  did  she  change  her  atti- 
tude. She  remained  very  still,  and  Durrance  was 
alarmed,  and  all  his  hopes  sank.  For  a  stillness  of 
attitude  he  knew  to  be  with  her  as  definite  an  expres- 
sion of  distress  as  a  cry  of  pain  with  another  woman. 
He  turned  about  towards  her.  Her  head  was  bent, 
but  she  raised  it  as  he  turned,  and  though  her  lips 
smiled,  there  was  a  look  of  great  trouble  in  her  eyes. 
Durrance  was  a  man  like  another.  His  first  thought 
was  whether  there  was  not  some  obstacle  which  would 

H 


98  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

hinder  her  from  compliance,  even  though  she  herself 
were  willing. 

"There  is  your  father,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  there  is  my  father  too.  I 
could  not  leave  him." 

"  Nor  need  you,"  said  he,  quickly.  "  That  difficulty 
can  be  surmounted.  To  tell  the  truth  I  was  not  think- 
ing of  your  father  at  the  moment." 

"  Nor  was  I,"  said  she. 

Durrance  turned  away  and  sat  for  a  little  while 
staring  down  the  rocks  into  a  wrinkled  pool  of  water 
just  beneath.  It  was  after  all  the  shadow  of  Fever- 
sham  which  stretched  between  himself  and  her. 

"  I  know,  of  course,"  he  said,  "  that  you  would  never 
feel  trouble,  as  so  many  do,  with  half  your  heart. 
You  would  neither  easily  care  nor  lightly  forget." 

"  I  remember  enough,"  she  returned  in  a  low  voice, 
"  to  make  your  words  rather  a  pain  to  me.  Some  day 
perhaps  I  may  bring  myself  to  tell  everything  which 
happened  at  that  ball  three  years  ago,  and  then  you 
will  be  better  able  to  understand  why  I  am  a  little 
distressed.  All  that  I  can  tell  you  now  is  this :  I 
have  a  great  fear  that  I  was  to  some  degree  the  cause 
of  another  man's  ruin.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  was  to 
blame  for  it.  But  if  I  had  not  been  known  to  him, 
his  career  might  perhaps  never  have  come  to  so  abrupt 
an  end.  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  am  afraid.  I  asked 
whether  it  was  so,  and  I  was  told  'no,'  but  I  think 
very  likely  that  generosity  dictated  that  answer.  And 
the  fear  stays.  I  am  much  distressed  by  it.  I  lie 
awake  with  it  at  night.  And  then  you  come  whom  I 
greatly  value,  and  you  say  quietly,  'Will  you  please 
spoil  my  career  too?'"     And  she  struck  one  hand 


AT   GLENJLLA  99 

sharply  into  the  other  and  cried,  "But  that  I  will 
not  do." 

And  again  he  answered  :  — 

"  There  is  no  need  that  you  should.  Wadi  Haifa 
is  not  the  only  place  where  a  soldier  can  find  work  to 
his  hand." 

His  voice  had  taken  a  new  hopefulness.     For  he 
had  listened  intently  to  the  words  which   she   had 
spoken,  and  he  had  construed  them  by  the  dictionary 
of    his   desires.     She  had    not   said  that   friendship 
bounded  all  her  thoughts  of  him.     Therefore  he  need 
not  believe  it.     Women  were  given  to  a  hinting  mod- 
esty of  speech,  at  all  events  the  best  of   them.     A 
man  might  read  a  little  more  emphasis  into   their 
tones,  and  underline  their  words  and  still  be  short  of 
their   meaning,    as   he   argued.      A    subtle   delicacy 
graced  them  in  nature.     Durrance  was  near  to  Bene- 
dick's mood.     "  One  whom  I  value  "  ;  "I  shall  miss 
you  "  ;  there  might  be  a  double  meaning  in  the  phrases. 
When  she  said  that  she  needed  to  be  assured  that 
she   had   sure  friends,   did  she    not  mean  that   she 
needed   their   companionship  ?      But   the    argument, 
had  he  been  acute  enough  to  see  it,  proved  how  deep 
he  was  sunk  in  error.     For  what  this  girl  spoke,  she 
habitually  meant,  and  she  habitually  meant  no  more. 
Moreover,  upon  this  occasion  she  had  particularly 
weighed  her  words. 

"  No  doubt,"  she  said,  "a  soldier  can.  But  can  this 
soldier  find  work  so  suitable  ?  Listen,  please,  till  I 
have  done.  I  was  so  very  glad  to  hear  all  that  you 
have  told  me  about  your  work  and  your  journeys.  I  was 
still  more  glad  because  of  the  satisfaction  with  which 
you  told  it.    For  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  listened  and  as 


ioo  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

I  watched,  that  you  had  found  the  one  true  straight 
channel  along  which  your  life  could  run  swift  and 
smoothly  and  unharassed.  And  so  few  do  that  — 
so  very  few !  "  And  she  wrung  her  hands  and  cried, 
"  And  now  you  spoil  it  all." 

Durrance  suddenly  faced  her.  He  ceased  from 
argument ;  he  cried  in  a  voice  of  passion  :  — 

"I  am  for  you,  Ethne  !  There's  the  true  straight 
channel,  and  upon  my  word  I  believe  you  are  for  me. 
I  thought  —  I  admit  it  —  at  one  time  I  would  spend 
my  life  out  there  in  the  East,  and  the  thought  con- 
tented me.  But  I  had  schooled  myself  into  con- 
tentment, for  I  believed  you  married."  Ethne  ever 
so  slightly  flinched,  and  he  himself  recognised  that 
he  had  spoken  in  a  voice  overloud,  so  that  it  had 
something  almost  of  brutality. 

"  Do  I  hurt  you  ?  "  he  continued.  "  I  am  sorry. 
But  let  me  speak  the  whole  truth  out,  I  cannot  afford 
reticence,  I  want  you  to  know  the  first  and  last  of  it. 
I  say  now  that  I  love  you.  Yes,  but  I  could  have 
said  it  with  equal  truth  five  years  ago.  It  is  five 
years  since  your  father  arrested  me  at  the  ferry 
down  there  on  Lough  Swilly,  because  I  wished  to 
press  on  to  Letterkenny  and  not  delay  a  night  by 
stopping  with  a  stranger.  Five  years  since  I  first 
saw  you,  first  heard  the  language  of  your  violin.  I 
remember  how  you  sat  with  your  back  towards  me. 
The  light  shone  on  your  hair;  I  could  just  see  your 
eyelashes  and  the  colour  of  your  cheeks.  I  remem- 
ber the  sweep  of  your  arm.  .  .  .  My  dear,  you  are 
for  me ;  I  am  for  you." 

But  she  drew  back  from  his  outstretched  hands. 

"  No,"  she  said  very  gently,  but  with  a  decision  he 


AT  GLEIfjijiLA  \c\ 

could  not  mistake.  She  saw  more  clearly  into  his 
mind  than  he  did  himself.  The  restlessness  of  the 
born  traveller,  the  craving  for  the  large  and  lonely 
spaces  in  the  outlandish  corners  of  the  world,  the  in- 
curable intermittent  fever  to  be  moving,  ever  moving 
amongst  strange  peoples  and  under  strange  skies  — 
these  were  deep-rooted  qualities  of  the  man.  Passion 
might  obscure  them  for  a  while,  but  they  would  make 
their  appeal  in  the  end,  and  the  appeal  would  torture. 
The  home  would  become  a  prison.  Desires  would  so 
clash  within  him,  there  could  be  no  happiness.  That 
was  the  man.  For  herself,  she  looked  down  the 
slope  of  the  hill  across  the  brown  country.  Away 
on  the  right  waved  the  woods  about  Ramelton,  at 
her  feet  flashed  a  strip  of  the  Lough ;  and  this  was 
her  country ;  she  was  its  child  and  the  sister  of  its 
people. 

"  No,"  she  repeated,  as  she  rose  to  her  feet.  Dur- 
rance  rose  with  her.  He  was  still  not  so  much  dis- 
heartened as  conscious  of  a  blunder.  He  had  put 
his  case  badly ;  he  should  never  have  given  her  the 
opportunity  to  think  that  marriage  would  be  an  inter- 
ruption of  his  career. 

"  We  will  say  good-bye  here,"  she  said,  "  in  the 
open.  We  shall  be  none  the  less  good  friends  be- 
cause three  thousand  miles  hinder  us  from  shaking 
hands." 

They  shook  hands  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  shall  be  in  England  again  in  a  year's  time," 
said  Durrance.     "  May  I  come  back?  " 

Ethne's  eyes  and  her  smile  consented. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  you  altogether,"  she 
said,  "  although  even  if  I  did  not  see  you,  I  should 


i:o2  ''THEFOUP    FEATHERS 

know  that  I  had  not  lost  your  friendship."  She 
added,  "  I  should  also  be  glad  to  hear  news  of  you 
and  what  you  are  doing,  if  ever  you  have  the  time 
to  spare." 

11 1  may  write  ?  "  he  exclaimed  eagerly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  and  his  eagerness  made  her 
linger  a  little  doubtfully  upon  the  word.  "  That  is, 
if  you  think  it  fair.  I  mean,  it  might  be  best  for  you, 
perhaps,  to  get  rid  of  me  entirely  from  your  thoughts ; " 
and  Durrance  laughed  and  without  any  bitterness, 
so  that  in  a  moment  Ethne  found  herself  laughing 
too,  though  at  what  she  laughed  she  would  have 
discovered  it  difficult  to  explain.  "  Very  well,  write 
to  me  then."  And  she  added  drily,  "  But  it  will  be 
about  —  other  things." 

And  again  Durrance  read  into  her  words  the  in- 
terpretation he  desired;  and  again  she  meant  just 
what  she  said,  and  not  a  word  more. 

She  stood  where  he  left  her,  a  tall,  strong-limbed 
figure  of  womanhood,  until  he  was  gone  out  of  sight. 
Then  she  climbed  down  to  the  house,  and  going  into 
her  room  took  one  of  her  violins  from  its  case.  But 
it  was  the  violin  which  Durrance  had  given  to  her, 
and  before  she  had  touched  the  strings  with  her  bow 
she  recognised  it  and  put  it  suddenly  away  from  her 
in  its  case.  She  snapped  the  case  to.  For  a  few 
moments  she  sat  motionless  in  her  chair,  then  she 
quickly  crossed  the  room,  and,  taking  her  keys,  un- 
locked a  drawer.  At  the  bottom  of  the  drawer  there 
lay  hidden  a  photograph,  and  at  this  she  looked  for 
a  long  while  and  very  wistfully. 

Durrance  meanwhile  walked  down  to  the  trap 
which  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  gates  of  the  house, 


AT   GLEN  ALL  A  103 

and  saw  that  Dermod  Eustace  stood  in  the  road  with 
his  hat  upon  his  head. 

"  I  will  walk  a  few  yards  with  you,  Colonel  Dur- 
rance,"  said  Dermod.  "  I  have  a  word  for  your 
ear." 

Durrance  suited  his  stride  to  the  old  man's  falter- 
ing step,  and  they  walked  behind  the  dog-cart,  and  in 
silence.  It  was  not  the  mere  personal  disappointment 
which  weighed  upon  Durrance's  spirit.  But  he  could 
not  see  with  Ethne's  eyes,  and  as  his  gaze  took  in  that 
quiet  corner  of  Donegal,  he  was  filled  with  a  great 
sadness  lest  all  her  life  should  be  passed  in  this 
seclusion,  her  grave  dug  in  the  end  under  the  wall 
of  the  tiny  church,  and  her  memory  linger  only  in  a 
few  white  cottages  scattered  over  the  moorland,  and 
for  a  very  little  while.  He  was  recalled  by  the  press- 
ure of  Dermod's  hand  upon  his  elbow.  There  was 
a  gleam  of  inquiry  in  the  old  man's  faded  eyes,  but 
it  seemed  that  speech  itself  was  a  difficulty. 

"You  have  news  for  me?"  he  asked,  after  some 
hesitation.  "  News  of  Harry  Feversham  ?  I  thought 
that  I  would  ask  you  before  you  went  away." 

"  None,"  said  Durrance. 

"I  am  sorry,"  replied  Dermod,  wistfully,  "though 
I  have  no  reason  for  sorrow.  He  struck  us  a  cruel 
blow,  Colonel  Durrance.  I  should  have  nothing  but 
curses  for  him  in  my  mouth  and  my  heart.  A  black- 
throated  coward  my  reason  calls  him,  and  yet  I  would 
be  very  glad  to  hear  how  the  world  goes  with  him. 
You  were  his  friend.     But  you  do  not  know  ?  " 

It  was  actually  of  Harry  Feversham  that  Dermod 
Eustace  was  speaking,  and  Durrance,  as  he  remarked 
the  old  man's  wistfulness  of  voice  and  face,  was  seized 


104  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

with  a  certain  remorse  that  he  had  allowed  Ethne  so 
to  thrust  his  friend  out  of  his  thoughts.  He  specu- 
lated upon  the  mystery  of  Harry  Feversham's  dis- 
appearance at  times  as  he  sat  in  the  evening  upon 
his  verandah  above  the  Nile  at  Wadi  Haifa,  piecing 
together  the  few  hints  which  he  had  gathered.  "  A 
black-throated  coward,"  Dermod  had  called  Harry 
Feversham,  and  Ethne  had  said  enough  to  assure  him 
that  something  graver  than  any  dispute,  something 
which  had  destroyed  all  her  faith  in  the  man,  had 
put  an  end  to  their  betrothal.  But  he  could  not  con- 
jecture at  the  particular  cause,  and  the  only  conse- 
quence of  his  perplexed  imaginings  was  the  growth  of 
a  very  real  anger  within  him  against  the  man  who  had 
been  his  friend.  So  the  winter  passed,  and  summer 
came  to  the  Soudan  and  the  month  of  May. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    WELLS    OF    OBAK 

In  that  month  of  May  Durrance  lifted  his  eyes 
from  Wadi  Haifa  and  began  eagerly  to  look  home- 
ward. But  in  the  contrary  direction,  five  hundred 
miles  to  the  south  of  his  frontier  town,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  great  Nubian  desert  and  the  Belly  of 
Stones,  the  events  of  real  importance  to  him  were 
occurring  without  his  knowledge.  On  the  deserted 
track  between  Berber  and  Suakin  the  wells  of  Obak 
are  sunk  deep  amongst  mounds  of  shifting  sand. 
Eastward  a  belt  of  trees  divides  the  dunes  from  a 
hard  stony  plain  built  upon  with  granite  hills ;  west- 
ward the  desert  stretches  for  fifty-eight  waterless 
miles  to  Mahobey  and  Berber  on  the  Nile,  a  desert 
so  flat  that  the  merest  tuft  of  grass  knee-high  seems 
at  the  distance  of  a  mile  a  tree  promising  shade  for 
a  noonday  halt,  and  a  pile  of  stones  no  bigger  than 
one  might  see  by  the  side  of  any  roadway  in  repair 
achieves  the  stature  of  a  considerable  hill.  In  this 
particular  May  there  could  be  no  spot  more  desolate 
than  the  wells  of  Obak.  The  sun  blazed  upon  it 
from  six  in  the  morning  with  an  intolerable  heat,  and 
all  night  the  wind  blew  across  it  piercingly  cold,  and 
played  with  the  sand  as  it  would,  building  pyramids 
house-high  and  levelling  them,  tunnelling  valleys, 
silting  up  long  slopes,  so  that  the  face  of  the  country 

105 


106  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

was  continually  changed.  The  vultures  and  the  sand- 
grouse  held  it  undisturbed  in  a  perpetual  tenancy. 
And  to  make  the  spot  yet  more  desolate,  there  remained 
scattered  here  and  there  the  bleached  bones  and 
skeletons  of  camels  to  bear  evidence  that  about  these 
wells  once  the  caravans  had  crossed  and  halted ;  and 
the  remnants  of  a  house  built  of  branches  bent  in 
hoops  showed  that  once  Arabs  had  herded  their  goats 
and  made  their  habitation  there.  Now  the  sun  rose 
and  set,  and  the  hot  sky  pressed  upon  an  empty  round 
of  honey-coloured  earth.  Silence  brooded  there  like 
night  upon  the  waters ;  and  the  absolute  stillness 
made  it  a  place  of  mystery  and  expectation. 

Yet  in  this  month  of  May  one  man  sojourned  by 
the  wells  and  sojourned  secretly.  Every  morning  at 
sunrise  he  drove  two  camels,  swift  riding-mares  of 
the  pure  Bisharin  breed,  from  the  belt  of  trees, 
watered  them,  and  sat  by  the  well-mouth  for  the 
space  of  three  hours.  Then  he  drove  them  back 
again  into  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  and  fed  them  deli- 
cately with  dhoura  upon  a  cloth ;  and  for  the  rest  of 
the  day  he  appeared  no  more.  For  five  mornings  he 
thus  came  from  his  hiding-place  and  sat  looking 
toward  the  sand-dunes  and  Berber,  and  no  one  ap- 
proached him.  But  on  the  sixth,  as  he  was  on  the 
point  of  returning  to  his  shelter,  he  saw  the  figures  of 
a  man  and  a  donkey  suddenly  outlined  against  the 
sky  upon  a  crest  of  the  sand.  The  Arab  seated  by 
the  well  looked  first  at  the  donkey,  and,  remarking 
its  grey  colour,  half  rose  to  his  feet.  But  as  he  rose 
he  looked  at  the  man  who  drove  it,  and  saw  that  while 
his  jellab  was  drawn  forward  over  his  face  to  protect 
it  from  the  sun,  his  bare  legs  showed  of  an  ebony 


THE    WELLS    OF    OBJK  107 

blackness  against  the  sand.  The  donkey-driver  was 
a  negro.  The  Arab  sat  down  again  and  waited  with 
an  air  of  the  most  complete  indifference  for  the 
stranger  to  descend  to  him.  He  did  not  even  move 
or  turn  when  he  heard  the  negro's  feet  treading  the 
sand  close  behind  him. 

"Salam  aleikum,"  said  the  negro,  as  he  stopped. 
He  carried  a  long  spear  and  a  short  one,  and  a  shield 
of  hide.  These  he  laid  upon  the  ground  and  sat  by 
the  Arab's  side. 

The  Arab  bowed  his  head  and  returned  the  saluta- 
tion. 

"  Aleikum  es  salam,"  said  he,  and  he  waited. 

"  It  is  Abou  Fatma  ?  "  asked  the  negro. 

The  Arab  nodded  an  assent. 

"Two  days  ago,"  the  other  continued,  "a  man  of 
the  Bisharin,  Moussa  Fedil,  stopped  me  in  the  mar- 
ket-place of  Berber,  and  seeing  that  I  was  hungry, 
gave  me  food.  And  when  I  had  eaten  he  charged 
me  to  drive  this  donkey  to  Abou  Fatma  at  the  wells 
of  Obak." 

Abou  Fatma  looked  carelessly  at  the  donkey  as 
though  now  for  the  first  time  he  had  remarked  it. 

"  Tayeeb,"  he  said,  no  less  carelessly.  "  The 
donkey  is  mine,"  and  he  sat  inattentive  and  motion- 
less, as  though  the  negro's  business  were  done  and  he 
might  go. 

The  negro,  however,  held  his  ground. 

"I  am  to  meet  Moussa  Fedil  again  on  the  third 
morning  from  now,  in  the  market-place  of  Berber. 
Give  me  a  token  which  I  may  carry  back,  so  that  he 
may  know  I  have  fulfilled  the  charge  and  reward 
me." 


io8  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Abou  Fatma  took  his  knife  from  the  small  of  his 
back,  and  picking  up  a  stick  from  the  ground,  notched 
it  thrice  at  each  end. 

"This  shall  be  a  sign  to  Moussa  Fedil ; "  and  he 
handed  the  stick  to  his  companion.  The  negro  tied 
it  securely  into  a  corner  of  his  wrap,  loosed  his  water- 
skin  from  the  donkey's  back,  filled  it  at  the  well  and 
slung  it  about  his  shoulders.  Then  he  picked  up  his 
spears  and  his  shield.  Abou  Fatma  watched  him 
labour  up  the  slope  of  loose  sand  and  disappear  again 
on  the  further  incline  of  the  crest.  Then  in  his  turn 
he  rose,  and  hastily.  When  Harry  Feversham  had 
set  out  from  Obak  six  days  before  to  traverse 
the  fifty-eight  miles  of  barren  desert  to  the  Nile, 
this  grey  donkey  had  carried  his  water-skins  and 
food. 

Abou  Fatma  drove  the  donkey  down  amongst  the 
trees,  and  fastening  it  to  a  stem  examined  its  shoul- 
ders. In  the  left  shoulder  a  tiny  incision  had  been 
made  and  the  skin  neatly  stitched  up  again  with  fine 
thread.  He  cut  the  stitches,  and  pressing  open  the 
two  edges  of  the  wound,  forced  out  a  tiny  package 
little  bigger  than  a  postage  stamp.  The  package 
was  a  goat's  bladder,  and  enclosed  within  the  bladder 
was  a  note  written  in  Arabic  and  folded  very  small. 
Abou  Fatma  had  not  been  Gordon's  body-servant 
for  nothing ;  he  had  been  taught  during  his  service 
to  read.  He  unfolded  the  note,  and  this  is  what  was 
written :  — 

"  The  houses  which  were  once  Berber  are  de- 
stroyed, and  a  new  town  of  wide  streets  is  building. 
There  is  no  longer  any  sign  by  which  I  may  know 
the  ruins  of  Yusef's  house  from  the  ruins  of  a  hun- 


THE    WELLS    OF    OBAK  109 

dred  houses;   nor  does  Yusef  any  longer  sell  rock- 
salt  in  the  bazaar.     Yet  wait  for  me  another  week." 

The  Arab  of  the  Bisharin  who  wrote  the  letter  was 
Harry  Feversham.     Wearing  the  patched  jubbeh  of 
the  Dervishes  over  his  stained  skin,  his  hair  frizzed 
on  the  crown  of  his  head  and  falling  upon  the  nape 
of  his  neck  in  locks  matted  and  gummed  into  the 
semblance  of  seaweed,  he  went  about  his  search  for 
Yusef  through  the  wide  streets  of  New  Berber  with 
its  gaping  pits.     To  the  south,  and  separated  by  a 
mile  or  so  of  desert,  lay  the  old  town  where  Abou 
Fatma  had  slept  one  night  and  hidden  the  letters,  a 
warren  of  ruined  houses  facing  upon  narrow  alleys 
and   winding   streets.       The   front   walls    had   been 
pulled  down,  the  roofs  carried  away,  only  the  bare 
inner  walls  were  left  standing,   so  that   Feversham 
when  he  wandered  amongst   them   vainly  at  night 
seemed  to  have  come  into  long  lanes  of  five  courts, 
crumbling   into  decay.      And  each   court  was  only 
distinguishable  from  its  neighbour   by  a  degree  of 
ruin.     Already  the  foxes  made  their  burrows  beneath 
the  walls. 

He  had  calculated  that  one  night  would  have  been 
the  term  of  his  stay  in  Berber.  He  was  to  have 
crept  through  the  gate  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
and  before  the  grey  light  had  quenched  the  stars 
his  face  should  be  set  towards  Obak.  Now  he  must 
go  steadily  forward  amongst  the  crowds  like  a  man 
that  has  business  of  moment,  dreading  conversation 
lest  his  tongue  should  betray  him,  listening  ever  for 
the  name  of  Yusef  to  strike  upon  his  ears.  Despair 
kept  him  company  at  times,  and  fear  always.  But 
from  the  sharp  pangs  of  these  emotions  a  sort  of 


no  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

madness  was  begotten  in  him,  a  frenzy  of  obstinacy, 
a  belief  fanatical  as  the  dark  religion  of  those  amongst 
whom  he  moved,  that  he  could  not  now  fail  and  the 
world  go  on,  that  there  could  be  no  injustice  in  the 
whole  scheme  of  the  universe  great  enough  to  lay 
this  heavy  burden  upon  the  one  man  least  fitted  to 
bear  it  and  then  callously  to  destroy  him  because  he 
tried. 

Fear  had  him  in  its  grip  on  that  morning  three 
days  after  he  had  left  Abou  Fatma  at  the  wells, 
when  coming  over  a  slope  he  first  saw  the  sand 
stretched  like  a  lagoon  up  to  the  dark  brown  walls 
of  the  town,  and  the  overshadowing  foliage  of  the 
big  date  palms  rising  on  the  Nile  bank  beyond. 
Within  those  walls  were  the  crowded  Dervishes.  It 
was  surely  the  merest  madness  for  a  man  to  imagine 
that  he  could  escape  detection  there,  even  for  an 
hour.  Was  it  right,  he  began  to  ask,  that  a  man 
should  even  try  ?  The  longer  he  stood,  the  more 
insistent  did  this  question  grow.  The  low  mud  walls 
grew  strangely  sinister;  the  welcome  green  of  the 
waving  palms,  after  so  many  arid  days  of  sun  and 
sand  and  stones,  became  an  ironical  invitation  to 
death.  He  began  to  wonder  whether  he  had  not 
already  done  enough  for  honour  in  venturing  so  near. 

The  sun  beat  upon  him ;  his  strength  ebbed  from 
him  as  though  his  veins  were  opened.  If  he  were 
caught,  he  thought,  as  surely  he  would  be  —  oh,  very 
surely  !  He  saw  the  fanatical  faces  crowding  fiercely 
about  him  .  .  .  were  not  mutilations  practised  ?  .  .  . 
He  looked  about  him,  shivering  even  in  that  strong 
heat,  and  the  great  loneliness  of  the  place  smote 
upon  him,  so  that  his  knees  shook.     He  faced  about 


THE    WELLS    OF    OBAK  in 

and  commenced  to  run,  leaping  in  a  panic  alone  and 
unpursued  across  the  naked  desert  under  the  sun, 
while  from  his  throat  feeble  cries  broke  inarticulately. 

He  ran,  however,  only  for  a  few  yards,  and  it  was 
the  very  violence  of  his  flight  which  stopped  him. 
These  four  years  of  anticipation  were  as  nothing, 
then  ?  He  had  schooled  himself  in  the  tongue,  he 
had  lived  in  the  bazaars,  to  no  end  ?  He  was  still 
the  craven  who  had  sent  in  his  papers  ?  The  quiet 
confidence  with  which  he  had  revealed  his  plan  to 
Lieutenant  Sutch  over  the  table  in  the  Criterion  grill- 
room was  the  mere  vainglory  of  a  man  who  continu- 
ally deceived  himself  ?     And  Ethne  ?  .  .  . 

He  dropped  upon  the  ground  and,  drawing  his  coat 
over  his  head,  lay,  a  brown  spot  indistinguishable  from 
the  sand  about  him,  an  irregularity  in  the  great  waste 
surface  of  earth.  He  shut  the  prospect  from  his 
eyes,  and  over  the  thousands  of  miles  of  continent 
and  sea  he  drew  Ethne's  face  towards  him.  A  little 
while  and  he  was  back  again  in  Donegal.  The  sum- 
mer night  whispered  through  the  open  doorway  in 
the  hall ;  in  a  room  near  by  people  danced  to  music. 
He  saw  the  three  feathers  fluttering  to  the  floor ;  he 
read  the  growing  trouble  in  Ethne's  face.  If  he 
could  do  this  thing,  and  the  still  harder  thing  which 
now  he  knew  to  lie  beyond,  he  might  perhaps  some 
day  see  that  face  cleared  of  its  trouble.  There  were 
significant  words  too  in  his  ears,  "  I  should  have  no 
doubt  that  you  and  I  would  see  much  of  one  another 
afterwards."  Towards  the  setting  of  the  sun  he  rose 
from  the  ground,  and  walking  down  towards  Berber, 
passed  between  the  gates. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DURRANCE  HEARS  NEWS  OF  FEVERSHAM 

A  month  later  Durrance  arrived  in  London  and 
discovered  a  letter  from  Ethne  awaiting  him  at  his 
club.  It  told  him  simply  that  she  was  staying  with 
Mrs.  Adair,  and  would  be  glad  if  he  would  find  the 
time  to  call;  but  there  was  a  black  border  to  the 
paper  and  the  envelope.  Durrance  called  at  Hill 
Street  the  next  afternoon  and  found  Ethne  alone. 

"  I  did  not  write  to  Wadi  Haifa,"  she  explained  at 
once,  "for  I  thought  that  you  would  be  on  your  way 
home  before  my  letter  could  arrive.  My  father  died 
last  month,  towards  the  end  of  May." 

"  I  was  afraid  when  I  got  your  letter  that  you 
would  have  this  to  tell  me,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  very 
sorry.     You  will  miss  him." 

"  More  than  I  can  say,"  said  she,  with  a  quiet  depth 
of  feeling.  "  He  died  one  morning  early  —  I  think  I 
will  tell  you  if  you  would  care  to  hear,"  and  she  re- 
lated to  him  the  manner  of  Dermod's  death,  of  which 
a  chill  was  the  occasion  rather  than  the  cause ;  for 
he  died  of  a  gradual  dissolution  rather  than  a  definite 
disease. 

It  was  a  curious  story  which  Ethne  had  to  tell,  for 
it  seemed  that  just  before  his  death  Dermod  recap- 
tured something  of  his  old  masterful  spirit.  "We 
knew  that  he  was  dying,"  Ethne  said.     "He  knew 

112 


DURRANCE  HEARS  NEWS   OF  FEVERSHAM     113 

it  too,  and  at  seven  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  after  —  " 
she  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  resumed,  "  after  he 
had  spoken  for  a  little  while  to  me,  he  called  his  dog 
by  name.    The  dog  sprang  at  once  on  to  the  bed, 
though  his  voice  had  not  risen  above  a  whisper,  and 
crouching  quite  close,  pushed  its  muzzle  with  a  whine 
under  my  father's  hand.     Then  he  told  me  to  leave 
him  and  the  dog  altogether  alone.     I  was  to  shut  the 
door  upon  him.    The  dog  would  tell  me  when  to  open 
it  again.     I  obeyed  him  and  waited  outside  the  door 
until  one  o'clock.     Then  a  loud  sudden  howl  moaned 
through  the  house."     She  stopped  for  a  while.     This 
pause  was  the  only  sign  of  distress  which  she  gave, 
and  in  a  few  moments  she  went  on,  speaking  quite 
simply,  without  any  of  the  affectations  of  grief.     "  It 
was  trying  to  wait  outside  that  door  while  the  after- 
noon faded  and  the  night  came.     It  was  night,  of 
course,    long  before   the   end.     He   would  have  no 
lamp  left  in  his  room.     One  imagined  him  just  the 
other  side  of  that  thin  door-panel,  lying  very   still 
and  silent  in  the  great  four-poster  bed  with  his  face 
towards  the  hills,  and  the  light  falling.     One  imagined 
the  room  slipping  away  into  darkness,  and  the  win- 
dows continually  looming  into  a  greater  importance, 
and  the  dog  by  his  side  and  no  one  else,  right  to  the 
very  end.     He  would  have  it  that  way,  but  it  was 
rather  hard  for  me." 

Durrance  said  nothing  in  reply,  but  gave  her  in 
full  measure  what  she  most  needed,  the  sympathy  of 
his  silence.  He  imagined  those  hours  in  the  passage, 
six  hours  of  twilight  and  darkness ;  he  could  picture 
her  standing  close  by  the  door,  with  her  ear  perhaps 
to  the  panel,  and  her  hand  upon  her  heart  to  check 


U4  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

its  loud  beating.  There  was  something  rather  cruel, 
he  thought,  in  Dermod's  resolve  to  die  alone.  It  was 
Ethne  who  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  said  that  my  father  spoke  to  me  just  before  he 
told  me  to  leave  him.  Of  whom  do  you  think  he 
spoke  ?  " 

She  was  looking  directly  at  Durrance  as  she  put 
the  question.  From  neither  her  eyes  nor  the  level 
tone  of  her  voice  could  he  gather  anything  of  the 
answer,  but  a  sudden  throb  of  hope  caught  away  his 
breath. 

"  Tell  me !  "  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  suspense,  as  he 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair. 

"  Of  Mr.  Feversham,"  she  answered,  and  he  drew 
back  again,  and  rather  suddenly.  It  was  evident  that 
this  was  not  the  name  which  he  had  expected.  He 
took  his  eyes  from  hers  and  stared  downwards  at  the 
carpet,  so  that  she  might  not  see  his  face. 

"  My  father  was  always  very  fond  of  him,"  she 
continued  gently,  "  and  I  think  that  I  would  like  to 
know  if  you  have  any  knowledge  of  what  he  is  doing 
or  where  he  is." 

Durrance  did  not  answer  nor  did  he  raise  his  face. 
He  reflected  upon  the  strange  strong  hold  which 
Harry  Feversham  kept  upon  the  affections  of  those 
who  had  once  known  him  well ;  so  that  even  the  man 
whom  he  had  wronged,  and  upon  whose  daughter  he 
had  brought  much  suffering,  must  remember  him  with 
kindliness  upon  his  death-bed.  The  reflection  was 
not  without  its  bitterness  to  Durrance  at  this  moment, 
an.d  this  bitterness  he  was  afraid  that  his  face  and 
voice  might  both  betray.  But  he  was  compelled  to 
speak,  for  Ethne  insisted. 


DURRANCE   HEARS   NEWS   OF  FEVERSHAM     115 

"You  have  never  come  across  him,  I  suppose  ?  "  she 
asked. 

Durrance  rose  from  his  seat  and  walked  to  the  win- 
dow before  he  answered.  He  spoke  looking  out  into 
the  street,  but  though  he  thus  concealed  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  a  thrill  of  deep  anger  sounded 
through  his  words,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  subdue 
his  tones. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  never  have,"  and  suddenly  his 
anger  had  its  way  with  him ;  it  chose  as  well  as  in- 
formed his  words.  "  And  I  never  wish  to,"  he  cried. 
"  He  was  my  friend,  I  know.  But  I  cannot  remem- 
ber that  friendship  now.  I  can  only  think  that  if  he 
had  been  the  true  man  we  took  him  for,  you  would 
not  have  waited  alone  in  that  dark  passage  during 
those  six  hours."  He  turned  again  to  the  centre  of 
the  room  and  asked  abruptly :  — 
"You  are  going  back  to  Glenalla  ? " 
"Yes." 

"  You  will  live  there  alone  ? " 
"Yes." 

For  a  little  while  there  was  silence  between  them. 
Then  Durrance  walked  round  to  the  back  of  her 
chair. 

"You  once  said  that  you  would  perhaps  tell  me 
why  your  engagement  was  broken  off." 

"  But  you  know,"  she  said.  "  What  you  said  at  the 
window  showed  that  you  knew." 

"  No,  I  do  not.  One  or  two  words  your  father  let 
drop.  He  asked  me  for  news  of  Feversham  the  last 
time  that  I  spoke  with  him.  But  I  know  nothing 
definite.     I  should  like  you  to  tell  me." 

Ethne  shook  her  head  and  leaned  forward  with  her 


n6  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

elbows  on  her  knees.  "  Not  now,"  she  said,  and 
silence  again  followed  her  words.  Durrance  broke  it 
again. 

"  I  have  only  one  more  year  at  Haifa.  It  would  be 
wise  to  leave  Egypt  then,  I  think.  I  do  not  expect 
much  will  be  done  in  the  Soudan  for  some  little  while. 
I  do  not  think  that  I  will  stay  there  —  in  any  case.  I 
mean  even  if  you  should  decide  to  remain  alone  at 
Glenalla." 

Ethne  made  no  pretence  to  ignore  the  suggestion 
of  his  words.  "We  are  neither  of  us  children,"  she 
said  ;  "  you  have  all  your  life  to  think  of.  We  should 
be  prudent." 

"Yes,"  said  Durrance,  with  a  sudden  exasperation, 
"but  the  right  kind  of  prudence.  The  prudence 
which  knows  that  it's  worth  while  to  dare  a  good 
deal." 

Ethne  did  not  move.  She  was  leaning  forward 
with  her  back  towards  him,  so  that  he  could  see 
nothing  of  her  face,  and  for  a  long  while  she  re- 
mained in  this  attitude,  quite  silent  and  very  still. 
She  asked  a  question  at  the  last,  and  in  a  very  low 
and  gentle  voice. 

"  Do  you  want  me  so  very  much  ? "  And  before  he 
could  answer  she  turned  quickly  towards  him.  "  Try 
not  to,"  she  exclaimed  earnestly.  "  For  this  one  year 
try  not  to.  You  have  much  to  occupy  your  thoughts. 
Try  to  forget  me  altogether;"  and  there  was  just 
sufficient  regret  in  her  tone,  the  regret  at  the  prospect 
of  losing  a  valued  friend,  to  take  all  the  sting  from 
her  words,  to  confirm  Durrance  in  his  delusion  that 
but  for  her  fear  that  she  would  spoil  his  career,  she 
would  answer   him   in  very  different   words.      Mrs. 


DURRANCE  HEARS  NEWS   OF  FEVERSHAM     117 

Adair  came  into  the  room  before  he  could  reply,  and 
thus  he  carried  away  with  him  his  delusion. 

He  dined  that  evening  at  his  club,  and  sat  after- 
wards smoking  his  cigar  under  the  big  tree  where  he 
had  sat  so  persistently  a  year  before  in  his  vain  quest 
for  news  of  Harry  Feversham.  It  was  much  the 
same  sort  of  clear  night  as  that  on  which  he  had 
seen  Lieutenant  Sutch  limp  into  the  courtyard  and 
hesitate  at  the  sight  of  him.  The  strip  of  sky  was 
cloudless  and  starry  overhead ;  the  air  had  the  pleas- 
ant languor  of  a  summer  night  in  June ;  the  lights 
flashing  from  the  windows  and  doorways  gave  to  the 
leaves  of  the  trees  the  fresh  green  look  of  spring ; 
and  outside  in  the  roadway  the  carriages  rolled  with 
a  thunderous  hum  like  the  sound  of  the  sea.  And 
on  this  night,  too,  there  came  a  man  into  the  court- 
yard who  knew  Durrance.  But  he  did  not  hesitate. 
He  came  straight  up  to  Durrance  and  sat  down  upon 
the  seat  at  his  side.  Durrance  dropped  the  paper  at 
which  he  was  glancing  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do  ? "  said  he.  This  friend  was 
Captain  Mather. 

"  I  was  wondering  whether  I  should  meet  you  when 
I  read  the  evening  paper.  I  knew  that  it  was  about 
the  time  one  might  expect  to  find  you  in  London. 
You  have  seen,  I  suppose?" 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Durrance. 

"  Then  you  haven't,"  replied  Mather.  He  picked 
up  the  newspaper  which  Durrance  had  dropped  and 
turned  over  the  sheets,  searching  for  the  piece  of 
news  which  he  required.  "  You  remember  that  last 
reconnaissance  we  made  from  Suakin  ? " 

"  Very  well." 


1 18  THE   FOUR   FEATHERS 

"  We  halted  by  the  Sinkat  fort  at  midday.  There 
was  an  Arab  hiding  in  the  trees  at  the  back  of  the 
glacis." 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  the  yarn  he  told  you  ? " 

"  About  Gordon's  letters  and  the  wall  of  a  house  in 
Berber  ?     No,  I  have  not  forgotten." 

"Then  here's  something  which  will  interest  you," 
and  Captain  Mather,  having  folded  the  paper  to  his 
satisfaction,  handed  it  to  Durrance  and  pointed  to  a 
paragraph.  It  was  a  short  paragraph ;  it  gave  no 
details;  it  was  the  merest  summary;  and  Durrance 
read  it  through  between  the  puffs  of  his  cigar. 

"  The  fellow  must  have  gone  back  to  Berber  after 
all,"  said  he.  "A  risky  business.  Abou  Fatma  — 
that  was  the  man's  name." 

The  paragraph  made  no  mention  of  Abou  Fatma, 
or  indeed  of  any  man  except  Captain  Willoughby, 
the  Deputy-Governor  of  Suakin.  It  merely  announced 
that  certain  letters  which  the  Mahdi  had  sent  to 
Gordon  summoning  him  to  surrender  Khartum,  and 
inviting  him  to  become  a  convert  to  the  Mahdist 
religion,  together  with  copies  of  Gordon's  curt  replies, 
had  been  recovered  from  a  wall  in  Berber  and  brought 
safely  to  Captain  Willoughby  at  Suakin. 

"  They  were  hardly  worth  risking  a  life  for,"  said 
Mather. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  replied  Durrance,  a  little  doubt- 
fully. "  But  after  all,  one  is  glad  they  have  been 
recovered.  Perhaps  the  copies  are  in  Gordon's  own 
hand.    They  are,  at  all  events,  of  an  historic  interest." 

"  In  a  way,  no  doubt,"  said  Mather.  "  But  even 
so,  their  recovery  throws  no  light  upon  the  history  of 


DURRANCE  HEARS    NEWS    OF  FEVERS  HAM     119 

the  siege.  It  can  make  no  real  difference  to  any  one, 
not  even  to  the  historian." 

"That  is  true,"  Durrance  agreed,  and  there  was 
nothing  more  untrue.  In  the  same  spot  where  he 
had  sought  for  news  of  Feversham  news  had  now 
come  to  him  —  only  he  did  not  know.  He  was  in  the 
dark ;  he  could  not  appreciate  that  here  was  news 
which,  however  little  it  might  trouble  the  historian, 
touched  his  life  at  the  springs.  He  dismissed  the 
paragraph  from  his  mind,  and  sat  thinking  over  the 
conversation  which  had  passed  that  afternoon  between 
Ethne  and  himself,  and  without  discouragement. 
Ethne  had  mentioned  Harry  Feversham,  it  was  true, 
—  had  asked  for  news  of  him.  But  she  might  have 
been  —  nay,  she  probably  had  been  —  moved  to  ask 
because  her  father's  last  words  had  referred  to  him. 
She  had  spoken  his  name  in  a  perfectly  steady  voice, 
he  remembered ;  and,  indeed,  the  mere  fact  that  she 
had  spoken  it  at  all  might  be  taken  as  a  sign  that  it 
had  no  longer  any  power  with  her.  There  was  some- 
thing hopeful  to  his  mind  in  her  very  request  that  he 
should  try  during  this  one  year  to  omit  her  from  his 
thoughts.  For  it  seemed  almost  to  imply  that  if  he 
could  not,  she  might  at  the  end  of  it,  perhaps,  give 
to  him  the  answer  for  which  he  longed.  He  allowed 
a  few  days  to  pass,  and  then  called  again  at  Mrs. 
Adair's  house.  But  he  found  only  Mrs.  Adair. 
Ethne  had  left  London  and  returned  to  Donegal. 
She  had  left  rather  suddenly,  Mrs.  Adair  told  him, 
and  Mrs.  Adair  had  no  sure  knowledge  of  the  reason 
of  her  going. 

Durrance,  however,  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  reason. 
Ethne  was  putting  into  practice  the  policy  which  she 


izo  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

had  commended  to  his  thoughts.  He  was  to  try  to 
forget  her,  and  she  would  help  him  to  success  so  far 
as  she  could  by  her  absence  from  his  sight.  And  in 
attributing  this  reason  to  her,  Durrance  was  right. 
But  one  thing  Ethne  had  forgotten.  She  had  not 
asked  him  to  cease  to  write  to  her,  and  accordingly 
in  the  autumn  of  that  year  the  letters  began  again  to 
come  from  the  Soudan.  She  was  frankly  glad  to  re- 
ceive them,  but  at  the  same  time  she  was  troubled. 
For  in  spite  of  their  careful  reticence,  every  now  and 
then  a  phrase  leaped  out  —  it  might  be  merely  the 
repetition  of  some  trivial  sentence  which  she  had 
spoken  long  ago  and  long  ago  forgotten  —  and  she 
could  not  but  see  that  in  spite  of  her  prayer  she  lived 
perpetually  in  his  thoughts.  There  was  a  strain  of 
hopefulness  too,  as  though  he  moved  in  a  world 
painted  with  new  colours  and  suddenly  grown  musi- 
cal. Ethne  had  never  freed  herself  from  the  haunt- 
ing fear  that  one  man's  life  had  been  spoilt  because 
of  her ;  she  had  never  faltered  from  her  determina- 
tion that  this  should  not  happen  with  a  second.  Only 
with  Durrance's  letters  before  her  she  could  not  evade 
a  new  and  perplexing  question.  By  what  means  was 
that  possibility  to  be  avoided  ?  There  were  two  ways. 
By  choosing  which  of  them  could  she  fulfil  her  de- 
termination ?  She  was  no  longer  so  sure  as  she  had 
been  the  year  before  that  his  career  was  all  in  all. 
The  question  recurred  to  her  again  and  again.  She 
took  it  out  with  her  on  the  hillside  with  the  letters, 
and  pondered  and  puzzled  over  it  and  got  never  an 
inch  nearer  to  a  solution.  Even  her  violin  failed  her 
in  this  strait. 


CHAPTER  XII 

DURRANCE     SHARPENS    HIS     WITS 

It  was  a  night  of  May,  and  outside  the  mess-room 
at  Wadi  Haifa  three  officers  were  smoking  on  a  grass 
knoll  above  the  Nile.  The  moon  was  at  its  full,  and  the 
strong  light  had  robbed  even  the  planets  of  their  lus- 
tre. The  smaller  stars  were  not  visible  at  all,  and 
the  sky  washed  of  its  dark  colour,  curved  overhead, 
pearly-hued  and  luminous.  The  three  officers  sat  in 
their  lounge  chairs  and  smoked  silently,  while  the 
bull-frogs  croaked  from  an  island  in  mid-river.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  small  steep  cliff  on  which  they  sat 
the  Nile,  so  sluggish  was  its  flow,  shone  like  a  bur- 
nished mirror,  and  from  the  opposite  bank  the  desert 
stretched  away  to  infinite  distances,  a  vast  plain  with 
scattered  hummocks,  a  plain  white  as  a  hoar  frost  on 
the  surface  of  which  the  stones  sparkled  like  jewels. 
Behind  the  three  officers  of  the  garrison  the  roof  of 
the  mess-room  verandah  threw  a  shadow  on  the 
ground ;  it  seemed  a  solid  piece  of  blackness. 

One  of  the  three  officers  struck  a  match  and  held 
it  to  the  end  of  his  cigar.  The  flame  lit  up  a  troubled 
and  anxious  face. 

"  I  hope  that  no  harm  has  come  to  him,"  he  said, 
as  he  threw  the  match  away.  "  I  wish  that  I  could 
say  I  believed  it." 

The  speaker  was  a  man  of  middle  age  and  the  colo- 

121 


122  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

nel  of  a  Soudanese  battalion.  He  was  answered  by 
a  man  whose  hair  had  gone  grey,  it  is  true.  But 
grey  hair  is  frequent  in  the  Soudan,  and  his  unlined 
face  still  showed  that  he  was  young.  He  was  Lieu- 
tenant Calder  of  the  Engineers.  Youth,  however,  in 
this  instance  had  no  optimism  wherewith  to  challenge 
Colonel  Dawson. 

"  He  left  Haifa  eight  weeks  ago,  eh  ? "  he  said 
gloomily. 

"  Eight  weeks  to-day,"  replied  the  colonel. 

It  was  the  third  officer,  a  tall,  spare,  long-necked 
major  of  the  Army  Service  Corps,  who  alone  haz- 
arded a  cheerful  prophecy. 

"  It's  early  days  to  conclude  Durrance  has  got 
scuppered,"  said  he.  "One  knows  Durrance.  Give 
him  a  camp-fire  in  the  desert,  and  a  couple  of  sheiks 
to  sit  round  it  with  him,  and  he'll  buck  to  them  for  a 
month  and  never  feel  bored  at  the  end.  While  here 
there  are  letters,  and  there's  an  office,  and  there's  a 
desk  in  the  office  and  everything  he  loathes  and  can't 
do  with.  You'll  see  Durrance  will  turn  up  right 
enough,  though  he  won't  hurry  about  it." 

"He  is  three  weeks  overdue,"  objected  the  colo- 
nel, "and  he's  methodical  after  a  fashion.  I  am 
afraid." 

Major  Walters  pointed  out  his  arm  to  the  white 
empty  desert  across  the  river. 

"  If  he  had  travelled  that  way,  westward,  I  might 
agree,"  he  said.  "  But  Durrance  went  east  through 
the  mountain  country  toward  Berenice  and  the  Red 
Sea.  The  tribes  he  went  to  visit  were  quiet,  even 
in  the  worst  times,  when  Osman  Digna  lay  before 
Suakin." 


DURRANCE   SHARPENS   HIS    WITS         123 

The  colonel,  however,  took  no  comfort  from  Wal- 
ter's confidence.  He  tugged  at  his  moustache  and 
repeated,  "  He  is  three  weeks  overdue." 

Lieutenant  Calder  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe 
and  refilled  it.  He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  as  he 
pressed  the  tobacco  down  with  his  thumb,  and  he 
said  slowly :  — 

"  I  wonder.  It  is  just  possible  that  some  sort  of 
trap  was  laid  for  Durrance.  I  am  not  sure.  I  never 
mentioned  before  what  I  knew,  because  until  lately  I 
did  not  suspect  that  it  could  have  anything  to  do  with 
his  delay.  But  now  I  begin  to  wonder.  You  remem- 
ber the  night  before  he  started  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dawson,  and  he  hitched  his  chair  a 
little  nearer.  Calder  was  the  one  man  in  Wadi  Haifa 
who  could  claim  something  like  intimacy  with  Dur- 
rance. Despite  their  difference  in  rank  there  was  no 
great  disparity  in  age  between  the  two  men,  and  from 
the  first  when  Calder  had  come  inexperienced  and 
fresh  from  England,  but  with  a  great  ardour  to  ac- 
quire a  comprehensive  experience,  Durrance  in  his 
reticent  way  had  been  at  pains  to  show  the  newcomer 
considerable  friendship.  Calder,  therefore,  might  be 
likely  to  know. 

"  I  too  remember  that  night,"  said  Walters.  "  Dur- 
rance dined  at  the  mess  and  went  away  early  to  pre- 
pare for  his  journey." 

"  His  preparations  were  made  already,"  said  Calder. 
"  He  went  away  early,  as  you  say.  But  he  did  not  go 
to  his  quarters.  He  walked  along  the  river-bank  to 
Tewfikieh." 

Wadi  Haifa  was  the  military  station,  Tewfikieh  a 
little  frontier  town  to  the  north  separated  from  Haifa 


124  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

by  a  mile  of  river-bank.  A  few  Greeks  kept  stores 
there,  a  few  bare  and  dirty  cafes  faced  the  street  be- 
tween native  cook-shops  and  tobacconists'  ;  a  noisy 
little  town  where  the  negro  from  the  Dinka  country 
jolted  the  fellah  from  the  Delta,  and  the  air  was  torn 
with  many  dialects  ;  a  thronged  little  town,  which  yet 
lacked  to  European  ears  one  distinctive  element  of  a 
throng.  There  was  no  ring  of  footsteps.  The  crowd 
walked  on  sand  and  for  the  most  part  with  naked 
feet,  so  that  if  for  a  rare  moment  the  sharp  high  cries 
and  the  perpetual  voices  ceased,  the  figures  of  men 
and  women  flitted  by  noiseless  as  ghosts.  And  even 
at  night,  when  the  streets  were  most  crowded  and  the 
uproar  loudest,  it  seemed  that  underneath  the  noise, 
and  almost  appreciable  to  the  ear,  there  lay  a  deep 
and  brooding  silence,  the  silence  of  deserts  and  the 
East. 

"  Durrance  went  down  to  Tewfikieh  at  ten  o'clock 
that  night,"  said  Calder.  "  I  went  to  his  quarters  at 
eleven.  He  had  not  returned.  He  was  starting  east- 
ward at  four  in  the  morning,  and  there  was  some 
detail  of  business  on  which  I  wished  to  speak  to  him 
before  he  went.  So  I  waited  for  his  return.  He 
came  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards  and 
told  me  at  once  that  I  must  be  quick,  since  he  was 
expecting  a  visitor.  He  spoke  quickly  and  rather 
restlessly.  He  seemed  to  be  labouring  under  some 
excitement.  He  barely  listened  to  what  I  had  to  say, 
and  he  answered  me  at  random.  It  was  quite  evident 
that  he  was  moved,  and  rather  deeply  moved,  by  some 
unusual  feeling,  though  at  the  nature  of  the  feeling  I 
could  not  guess.  For  at  one  moment  it  seemed  cer- 
tainly to  be  anger,  and  the  next  moment  he  relaxed 


DURRANCE    SHARPENS    HIS    WITS         125 

into  a  laugh,  as  though  in  spite  of  himself  he  was 
glad.  However,  he  bundled  me  out,  and  as  I  went  I 
heard  him  telling  his  servant  to  go  to  bed,  because, 
though  he  expected  a  visitor,  he  would  admit  the 
visitor  himself." 

"  Well !  "  said  Dawson,  "  and  who  was  the  visitor  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Calder.  "  The  one 
thing  I  do  know  is  that  when  Durrance's  servant 
went  to  call  him  at  four  o'clock  for  his  journey,  he 
found  Durrance  still  sitting  on  the  verandah  outside 
his  quarters,  as  though  he  still  expected  his  visitor. 
The  visitor  had  not  come." 

"  And  Durrance  left  no  message  ?  " 

"No.  I  was  up  myself  before  he  started.  I 
thought  that  he  was  puzzled  and  worried.  I  thought, 
too,  that  he  meant  to  tell  me  what  was  the  matter.  I 
still  think  that  he  had  that  in  his  mind,  but  that  he 
could  not  decide.  For  even  after  he  had  taken  his 
seat  upon  his  saddle  and  his  camel  had  risen  from  the 
ground,  he  turned  and  looked  down  towards  me.  But 
he  thought  better  of  it,  or  worse,  as  the  case  may  be. 
At  all  events,  he  did  not  speak.  He  struck  the  camel 
on  the  flank  with  his  stick,  and  rode  slowly  past  the 
post-office  and  out  into  the  desert,  with  his  head  sunk 
upon  his  breast.  I  wonder  whether  he  rode  into  a 
trap.  Who  could  this  visitor  have  been  whom  he 
meets  in  the  street  of  Tewfikieh,  and  who  must  come 
so  secretly  to  Wadi  Haifa?  What  can  have  been 
his  business  with  Durrance  ?  Important  business, 
troublesome  business  —  so  much  is  evident.  And  he 
did  not  come  to  transact  it.  Was  the  whole  thing  a 
lure  to  which  we  have  not  the  clue  ?  Like  Colonel 
Dawson,  I  am  afraid." 


126  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

There  was  a  silence  after  he  had  finished,  which 
Major  Walters  was  the  first  to  break.  He  offered  no 
argument  —  he  simply  expressed  again  his  unalter- 
able cheerfulness. 

"  I  don't  think  Durrance  has  got  scuppered,"  said 
he,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  I  know  what  I  shall  do,"  said  the  colonel.  "  I 
shall  send  out  a  strong  search  party  in  the  morning." 

And  the  next  morning,  as  they  sat  at  breakfast  on 
the  verandah,  he  at  once  proceeded  to  describe  the 
force  which  he  meant  to  despatch.  Major  Walters, 
too,  it  seemed,  in  spite  of  his  hopeful  prophecies,  had 
pondered  during  the  night  over  Calder's  story,  and 
he  leaned  across  the  table  to  Calder. 

"  Did  you  never  inquire  whom  Durrance  talked 
with  at  Tewfikieh  on  that  night  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  did,  and  there's  a  point  that  puzzles  me,"  said 
Calder.  He  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  Nile 
and  his  face  towards  the  glass  doors  of  the  mess- 
room,  and  he  spoke  to  Walters,  who  was  directly 
opposite.  "  I  could  not  find  that  he  talked  to  more 
than  one  person,  and  that  one  person  could  not  by 
any  likelihood  have  been  the  visitor  he  expected. 
Durrance  stopped  in  front  of  a  cafe  where  some 
strolling  musicians,  who  had  somehow  wandered  up  to 
Tewfikieh,  were  playing  and  singing  for  their  night's 
lodging.  One  of  them,  a  Greek  I  was  told,  came 
outside  into  the  street  and  took  his  hat  round.  Dur- 
rance threw  a  sovereign  into  the  hat,  the  man  turned 
to  thank  him,  and  they  talked  for  a  little  time  to- 
gether ; "  and  as  he  came  to  this  point  he  raised  his 
head.  A  look  of  recognition  came  into  his  face.  He 
laid  his  hands  upon  the  table-edge,  and  leaned  for- 


DURRANCE    SHARPENS    HIS    WITS         127 

ward  with  his  feet  drawn  back  beneath  his  chair  as 
though  he  was  on  the  point  of  springing  up.  But  he 
did  not  spring  up.  His  look  of  recognition  became 
one  of  bewilderment.  He  glanced  round  the  table 
and  saw  that  Colonel  Dawson  was  helping  himself 
to  cocoa,  while  Major  Walters's  eyes  were  on  his 
plate.  There  were  other  officers  of  the  garrison 
present,  but  not  one  had  remarked  his  movement 
and  its  sudden  arrest.  Calder  leaned  back,  and  star- 
ing curiously  in  front  of  him  and  over  the  major's 
shoulder,  continued  his  story.  "  But  I  could  never 
hear  that  Durrance  spoke  to  any  one  else.  He 
seemed,  except  that  one  knows  to  the  contrary, 
merely  to  have  strolled  through  the  village  and  back 
again  to  Wadi  Haifa." 

"That  doesn't  help  us  much,"  said  the  major. 

"  And  it's  all  you  know  ?  "  asked  the  colonel. 

"No,  not  quite  all,"  returned  Calder,  slowly;  "I 
know,  for  instance,  that  the  man  we  are  talking 
about  is  staring  me  straight  in  the  face." 

At  once  everybody  at  the  table  turned  towards  the 
mess-room. 

"  Durrance !  "  cried  the  colonel,  springing  up. 

"When  did  you  get  back?  "  said  the  major. 

Durrance,  with  the  dust  of  his  journey  still  pow- 
dered upon  his  clothes,  and  a  face  burnt  to  the  colour 
of  red  brick,  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  listen- 
ing with  a  remarkable  intentness  to  the  voices  of  his 
fellow-officers.  It  was  perhaps  noticeable  that  Calder, 
who  was  Durrance's  friend,  neither  rose  from  his 
chair  nor  offered  any  greeting.  He  still  sat  watching 
Durrance;  he  still  remained  curious  and  perplexed; 
but  as  Durrance  descended  the  three  steps  into  the 


128  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

verandah  there  came  a  quick  and  troubled  look  of 
comprehension  into  his  face. 

"  We  expected  you  three  weeks  ago,"  said  Dawson, 
as  he  pulled  a  chair  away  from  an  empty  place  at  the 
table. 

"  The  delay  could  not  be  helped,"  replied  Durrance. 
He  took  the  chair  and  drew  it  up. 

"  Does  my  story  account  for  it  ?  "  asked  Calder. 

"  Not  a  bit.  It  was  the  Greek  musician  I  expected 
that  night,"  he  explained  with  a  laugh.  "  I  was 
curious  to  know  what  stroke  of  ill-luck  had  cast  him 
out  to  play  the  zither  for  a  night's  lodging  in  a  cafe 
at  Tewfikieh.  That  was  all,"  and  he  added  slowly, 
in  a  softer  voice,  "  Yes,  that  was  all." 

"Meanwhile  you  are  forgetting  your  breakfast," 
said  Dawson,  as  he  rose.     "  What  will  you  have  ?  " 

Calder  leaned  ever  so  slightly  forward  with  his  eyes 
quietly  resting  on  Durrance.  Durrance  looked  round 
the  table,  and  then  called  the  mess-waiter.  "  Moussa, 
get  me  something  cold,"  said  he,  and  the  waiter  went 
back  into  the  mess-room.  Calder  nodded  his  head 
with  a  faint  smile,  as  though  he  understood  that  here 
was  a  difficulty  rather  cleverly  surmounted. 

"  There's  tea,  cocoa,  and  coffee,"  he  said.  "  Help 
yourself,  Durrance." 

"Thanks,"  said  Durrance.  "I  see,  but  I  will  get 
Moussa  to  bring  me  a  brandy-and-soda,  I  think,"  and 
again  Calder  nodded  his  head. 

Durrance  ate  his  breakfast  and  drank  his  brandy- 
and-soda,  and  talked  the  while  of  his  journey.  He 
had  travelled  farther  eastward  than  he  had  intended. 
He  had  found  the  Ababdeh  Arabs  quiet  amongst 
their    mountains.     If    they    were    not    disposed    to 


DURRANCE   SHARPENS   HIS    WITS         129 

acknowledge  allegiance  to  Egypt,  on  the  other  hand 
they  paid  no  tribute  to  Mahommed  Achmet.  The 
weather  had  been  good,  ibex  and  antelope  plentiful. 
Durrance,  on  the  whole,  had  reason  to  be  content 
with  his  journey.  And  Calder  sat  and  watched  him, 
and  disbelieved  every  word  that  he  said.  The  other 
officers  went  about  their  duties ;  Calder  remained 
behind,  and  waited  until  Durrance  should  finish.  But 
it  seemed  that  Durrance  never  would  finish.  He  loi- 
tered over  his  breakfast,  and  when  that  was  done  he 
pushed  his  plate  away  and  sat  talking.  There  was 
no  end  to  his  questions  as  to  what  had  passed  at 
Wadi  Haifa  during  the  last  eight  weeks,  no  limit  to 
his  enthusiasm  over  the  journey  from  which  he  had 
just  returned.  Finally,  however,  he  stopped  with  a 
remarkable  abruptness,  and  said,  with  some  suspicion, 
to  his  companion  :  — 

"  You  are  taking  life  easily  this  morning." 

"  I  have  not  eight  weeks'  arrears  of  letters  to  clear 
off,  as  you  have,  Colonel,"  Calder  returned  with  a 
laugh  ;  and  he  saw  Durrance's  face  cloud  and  his 
forehead  contract. 

"  True,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  I  had  forgotten 
my  letters."  And  he  rose  from  his  seat  at  the  table, 
mounted  the  steps,  and  passed  into  the  mess-room. 

Calder  immediately  sprang  up,  and  with  his  eyes 
followed  Durrance's  movements.  Durrance  went  to 
a  nail  which  was  fixed  in  the  wall  close  to  the  glass 
doors  and  on  a  level  with  his  head.  From  that  nail 
he  took  down  the  key  of  his  office,  crossed  the  room, 
and  went  out  through  the  farther  door.  That  door 
he  left  open,  and  Calder  could  see  him  walk  down  the 
path  between  the  bushes  through  the  tiny  garden  in 


130  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

front  of  the  mess,  unlatch  the  gate,  and  cross  the 
open  space  of  sand  towards  his  office.  As  soon  as 
Durrance  had  disappeared  Calder  sat  down  again, 
and,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  table,  propped  his  face 
between  his  hands.  Calder  was  troubled.  He  was  a 
friend  of  Durrance  ;  he  was  the  one  man  in  Wadi 
Haifa  who  possessed  something  of  Durrance's  confi- 
dence ;  he  knew  that  there  were  certain  letters  in  a 
woman's  handwriting  waiting  for  him  in  his  office. 
He  was  very  deeply  troubled.  Durrance  had  aged 
during  these  eight  weeks.  There  were  furrows  about 
his  mouth  where  only  faint  lines  had  been  visible 
when  he  had  started  out  from  Haifa ;  and  it  was  not 
merely  desert  dust  which  had  discoloured  his  hair. 
His  hilarity,  too,  had  an  artificial  air.  He  had  sat  at 
the  table  constraining  himself  to  the  semblance  of 
high  spirits.  Calder  lit  his  pipe,  and  sat  for  a  long 
while  by  the  empty  table. 

Then  he  took  his  helmet  and  crossed  the  sand  to 
Durrance's  office.  He  lifted  the  latch  noiselessly  ;  as 
noiselessly  he  opened  the  door,  and  he  looked  in. 
Durrance  was  sitting  at  his  desk  with  his  head  bowed 
upon  his  arms  and  all  his  letters  unopened  at  his  side. 
Calder  stepped  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door 
loudly  behind  him.  At  once  Durrance  turned  his 
face  to  the  door. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  have  a  paper,  Colonel,  which  requires  your 
signature,"  said  Calder.  "  It's  the  authority  for  the 
alterations  in  C  barracks.     You  remember  ?  " 

"  Very  well.  I  will  look  through  it  and  return  it 
to  you,  signed,  at  lunch-time.  Will  you  give  it  to  me, 
please  ? " 


DURRANCE    SHARPENS    HIS    WITS  131 

He  held  out  his  hand  towards  Calder.  Calder  took 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and,  standing  thus  in  full 
view  of  Durrance,  slowly  and  deliberately  placed  it 
into  Durrance's  outstretched  palm.  It  was  not  until 
the  hot  bowl  burnt  his  hand  that  Durrance  snatched 
his  arm  away.  The  pipe  fell  and  broke  upon  the 
floor.  Neither  of  the  two  men  spoke  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  Calder  put  his  arm  round  Dur- 
rance's shoulder,  and  asked  in  a  voice  gentle  as  a 
woman's :  — 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  " 

Durrance  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  great 
control  which  he  had  exercised  till  now  he  was  no 
longer  able  to  sustain.  He  did  not  answer,  nor  did  he 
utter  any  sound,  but  he  sat  shivering  from  head  to  foot. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  Calder  asked  again,  and  in 
a  whisper. 

Durrance  put  another  question  :  — 

"  How  did  you  find  out  ?  " 

"  You  stood  in  the  mess-room  doorway  listening  to 
discover  whose  voice  spoke  from  where.  When  I 
raised  my  head  and  saw  you,  though  your  eyes  rested 
on  my  face  there  was  no  recognition  in  them.  I  sus- 
pected then.  When  you  came  down  the  steps  into 
the  verandah  I  became  almost  certain.  When  you 
would  not  help  yourself  to  food,  when  you  reached 
out  your  arm  over  your  shoulder  so  that  Moussa  had 
to  put  the  brandy-and-soda  safely  into  your  palm,  I 
was  sure." 

"  I  was  a  fool  to  try  and  hide  it,"  said  Durrance. 
"  Of  course  I  knew  all  the  time  that  I  couldn't  for 
more  than  a  few  hours.  But  even  those  few  hours 
somehow  seemed  a  gain." 


i32  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  There  was  a  high  wind,"  Durrance  explained. 
"  It  took  my  helmet  off.  It  was  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  I  did  not  mean  to  move  my  camp  that  day, 
and  I  was  standing  outside  my  tent  in  my  shirt- 
sleeves. So  you  see  that  I  had  not  even  the  collar 
of  a  coat  to  protect  the  nape  of  my  neck.  I  was  fool 
enough  to  run  after  my  helmet  ;  and  —  you  must 
have  seen  the  same  thing  happen  a  hundred  times  — 
each  time  that  I  stooped  to  pick  it  up  it  skipped 
away ;  each  time  that  I  ran  after  it,  it  stopped  and 
waited  for  me  to  catch  it  up.  And  before  one  was 
aware  what  one  was  doing,  one  had  run  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  I  went  down,  I  was  told,  like  a  log  just  when 
I  had  the  helmet  in  my  hand.  How  long  ago  it  hap- 
pened I  don't  quite  know,  for  I  was  ill  for  a  time,  and 
afterwards  it  was  difficult  to  keep  count,  since  one 
couldn't  tell  the  difference  between  day  and  night." 

Durrance,  in  a  word,  had  gone  blind.  He  told  the 
rest  of  his  story.  He  had  bidden  his  followers  carry 
him  back  to  Berber,  and  then,  influenced  by  the 
natural  wish  to  hide  his  calamity  as  long  as  he  could, 
he  had  enjoined  upon  them  silence.  Calder  heard 
the  story  through  to  the  end,  and  then  rose  at  once 
to  his  feet. 

"  There's  a  doctor.  He  is  clever,  and,  for  a  Syrian, 
knows  a  good  deal.  I  will  fetch  him  here  privately, 
and  we  will  hear  what  he  says.  Your  blindness  may 
be  merely  temporary." 

The  Syrian  doctor,  however,  pursed  up  his  lips  and 
shook  his  head.  He  advised  an  immediate  departure 
to  Cairo.  It  was  a  case  for  a  specialist.  He  himself 
would  hesitate  to  pronounce  an  opinion  ;  though,  to 
be  sure,  there  was  always  hope  of  a  cure. 


DURRANCE    SHARPENS    HIS    WITS         133 

"  Have  you  ever  suffered  an  injury  in  the  head  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  Were  you  ever  thrown  from  your  horse  ? 
Were  you  wounded  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Durrance. 

The  Syrian  did  not  disguise  his  conviction  that  the 
case  was  grave ;  and  after  he  had  departed  both  men 
were  silent  for  some  time.  Calder  had  a  feeling  that 
any  attempt  at  consolation  would  be  futile  in  itself, 
and  might,  moreover,  in  betraying  his  own  fear  that 
the  hurt  was  irreparable,  only  discourage  his  compan- 
ion. He  turned  to  the  pile  of  letters  and  looked  them 
through. 

"  There  are  two  letters  here,  Durrance,"  he  said 
gently,  "which  you  might  perhaps  care  to  hear. 
They  are  written  in  a  woman's  hand,  and  there  is 
an  Irish  postmark.     Shall  I  open  them  ? " 

"No,"  exclaimed  Durrance,  suddenly,  and  his 
hand  dropped  quickly  upon  Calder's  arm.  "  By  no 
means." 

Calder,  however,  did  not  put  down  the  letters.  He 
was  anxious,  for  private  reasons  of  his  own,  to  learn 
something  more  of  Ethne  Eustace  than  the  outside  of 
her  letters  could  reveal.  A  few  rare  references  made 
in  unusual  moments  of  confidence  by  Durrance  had 
only  informed  Calder  of  her  name,  and  assured  him 
that  his  friend  would  be  very  glad  to  change  it  if  he 
could.  He  looked  at  Durrance  —  a  man  so  trained  to 
vigour  and  activity  that  his  very  sunburn  seemed  an 
essential  quality  rather  than  an  accident  of  the  coun- 
try in  which  he  lived ;  a  man,  too,  who  came  to  the 
wild,  uncitied  places  of  the  world  with  the  joy  of  one 
who  comes  into  an  inheritance  ;  a  man  to  whom  these 
desolate  tracts  were  home,  and  the  fireside  and  the 


i34  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

hedged  fields  and  made  roads  merely  the  other  places ; 
and  he  understood  the  magnitude  of  the  calamity 
which  had  befallen  him.  Therefore  he  was  most 
anxious  to  know  more  of  this  girl  who  wrote  to  Dur- 
rance  from  Donegal,  and  to  gather  from  her  letters, 
as  from  a  mirror  in  which  her  image  was  reflected, 
some  speculation  as  to  her  character.  For  if  she 
failed,  what  had  this  friend  of  his  any  longer  left  ? 

"You  would  like  to  hear  them,  I  expect,"  he  in- 
sisted. "  You  have  been  away  eight  weeks."  And 
he  was  interrupted  by  a  harsh  laugh. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  when  I 
stopped  you  ?  "  said  Durrance.  "  Why,  that  I  would 
read  the  letters  after  you  had  gone.  It  takes  time  to 
get  used  to  being  blind  after  your  eyes  have  served 
you  pretty  well  all  your  life."  And  his  voice  shook 
ever  so  little.  "  You  will  have  to  help  me  to  answer 
them,  Calder.     So  read  them.     Please  read  them." 

Calder  tore  open  the  envelopes  and  read  the  letters 
through  and  was  satisfied.  They  gave  a  record  of 
the  simple  doings  of  her  mountain  village  in  Done- 
gal, and  in  the  simplest  terms.  But  the  girl's  nature 
shone  out  in  the  telling.  Her  love  of  the  country-side 
and  of  the  people  who  dwelt  there  was  manifest. 
She  could  see  the  humour  and  the  tragedy  of  the 
small  village  troubles.  There  was  a  warm  friendli- 
ness for  Durrance  moreover  expressed,  not  so  much 
in  a  sentence  as  in  the  whole  spirit  of  the  letters.  It 
was  evident  that  she  was  most  keenly  interested  in 
all  that  he  did ;  that,  in  a  way,  she  looked  upon  his 
career  as  a  thing  in  which  she  had  a  share,  even  if  it 
was  only  a  friend's  share.  And  when  Calder  had 
ended  he  looked  again  at  Durrance,  but  now  with  a 


DURRANCE    SHARPENS   HIS    W ITS         135 

face  of  relief.  It  seemed,  too,  that  Durrance  was 
relieved. 

"  After  all,  one  has  something  to  be  thankful  for," 
he  cried.  "  Think !  Suppose  that  I  had  been  en- 
gaged to  her !  She  would  never  have  allowed  me  to 
break  it  off,  once  I  had  gone  blind.    What  an  escape  !  " 

"  An  escape  ?  "  exclaimed  Calder. 

"  You  don't  understand.  But  I  knew  a  man  who 
went  blind ;  a  good  fellow,  too,  before  —  mind  that, 
before !  But  a  year  after !  You  couldn't  have  recog- 
nised him.  He  had  narrowed  down  into  the  most 
selfish,  exacting,  egotistical  creature  it  is  possible  to 
imagine.  I  don't  wonder  ;  I  hardly  see  how  he  could 
help  it ;  I  don't  blame  him.  But  it  wouldn't  make  life 
easier  for  a  wife,  would  it  ?  A  helpless  husband  who 
can't  cross  a  road  without  his  wife  at  his  elbow  is  bad 
enough.  But  make  him  a  selfish  beast  into  the  bar- 
gain, full  of  questions,  jealous  of  her  power  to  go 
where  she  will,  curious  as  to  every  person  with 
whom  she  speaks  —  and  what  then  ?  My  God,  I 
am  glad  that  girl  refused  me.  For  that  I  am  most 
grateful." 

"  She  refused  you  ? "  asked  Calder,  and  the  relief 
passed  from  his  face  and  voice. 

"  Twice,"  said  Durrance.  "  What  an  escape  !  You 
see,  Calder,  I  shall  be  more  trouble  even  than  the  man 
I  told  you  of.  I  am  not  clever.  I  can't  sit  in  a  chair 
and  amuse  myself  by  thinking,  not  having  any  intel- 
lect to  buck  about.  I  have  lived  out  of  doors  and 
hard,  and  that's  the  only  sort  of  life  that  suits  me. 
I  tell  you,  Calder,  you  won't  be  very  anxious  for 
much  of  my  society  in  a  year's  time,"  and  he  laughed 
again  and  with  the  same  harshness. 


136  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"Oh,  stop  that,"  said  Calder ;  " I  will  read  the  rest 
of  your  letters  to  you." 

He  read  them,  however,  without  much  attention  to 
their  contents.  His  mind  was  occupied  with  the  two 
letters  from  Ethne  Eustace,  and  he  was  wondering 
whether  there  was  any  deeper  emotion  than  mere 
friendship  hidden  beneath  the  words.  Girls  refused 
men  for  all  sorts  of  queer  reasons  which  had  no  sense 
in  them,  and  very  often  they  were  sick  and  sorry 
about  it  afterwards ;  and  very  often  they  meant  to 
accept  the  men  all  the  time. 

"  I  must  answer  the  letters  from  Ireland,"  said 
Durrance,  when  he  had  finished.  "  The  rest  can 
wait." 

Calder  held  a  sheet  of  paper  upon  the  desk  and  told 
Durrance  when  he  was  writing  on  a  slant  and  when 
he  was  writing  on  the  blotting-pad  ;  and  in  this  way 
Durrance  wrote  to  tell  Ethne  that  a  sunstroke  had 
deprived  him  of  his  sight.  Calder  took  that  letter 
away.  But  he  took  it  to  the  hospital  and  asked  for 
the  Syrian  doctor.  The  doctor  came  out  to  him,  and 
they  walked  together  under  the  trees  in  front  of  the 
building. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,"  said  Calder. 

The  doctor  blinked  behind  his  spectacles. 

"The  optic  nerve  is,  I  think,  destroyed,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  there  is  no  hope  ?  " 

"  None,  if  my  diagnosis  is  correct." 

Calder  turned  the  letter  over  and  over,  as  though 
he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  what  in  the  world  to 
do  with  it. 

"  Can  a  sunstroke  destroy  the  optic  nerve  ? "  he 
asked  at  length. 


DURRANCE   SHARPENS  HIS    W ITS         137 

"A  mere  sunstroke?  No,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"  But  it  may  be  the  occasion.  For  the  cause  one 
must  look  deeper." 

Calder  came  to  a  stop,  and  there  was  a  look  of 
horror  in  his  eyes.  "  You  mean  —  one  must  look  to 
the  brain  ? " 

"  Yes." 

They  walked  on  for  a  few  paces.  A  further  ques- 
tion was  in  Calder's  mind,  but  he  had  some  difficulty 
in  speaking  it,  and  when  he  had  spoken  he  waited  for 
the  answer  in  suspense. 

"  Then  this  calamity  is  not  all.  There  will  be  more 
to  follow  —  death  or  —  "  but  that  other  alternative  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  utter.  Here,  however,  the 
doctor  was  able  to  reassure  him. 

"  No.     That  does  not  follow." 

Calder  went  back  to  the  mess-room  and  called  for 
a  brandy-and-soda.  He  was  more  disturbed  by  the 
blow  which  had  fallen  upon  Durrance  than  he  would 
have  cared  to  own ;  and  he  put  the  letter  upon  the 
table  and  thought  of  the  message  of  renunciation 
which  it  contained,  and  he  could  hardly  restrain  his 
fingers  from  tearing  it  across.  It  must  be  sent,  he 
knew ;  its  destruction  would  be  of  no  more  than  a 
temporary  avail.  Yet  he  could  hardly  bring  himself 
to  post  it.  With  the  passage  of  every  minute  he 
realised  more  clearly  what  blindness  meant  to  Dur- 
rance. A  man  not  very  clever,  as  he  himself  was 
ever  the  first  to  acknowledge,  and  always  the  inheritor 
of  the  other  places,  —  how  much  more  it  meant  to 
him  than  to  the  ordinary  run  of  men !  Would  the 
girl,  he  wondered,  understand  as  clearly  ?  It  was 
very  silent  that  morning  on  the  verandah  at  Wadi 


138  THE  FOUR    FEATHERS 

Haifa ;  the  sunlight  blazed  upon  desert  and  river ; 
not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  foliage  of  any  bush. 
Calder  drank  his  brandy-and-soda,  and  slowly  that 
question  forced  itself  more  and  more  into  the  front 
of  his  mind.  Would  the  woman  over  in  Ireland  un- 
derstand ?  He  rose  from  his  chair  as  he  heard 
Colonel  Dawson's  voice  in  the  mess-room,  and  tak- 
ing up  his  letter,  walked  away  to  the  post-office. 
Durrance's  letter  was  despatched,  but  somewhere  in 
the  Mediterranean  it  crossed  a  letter  from  Ethne, 
which  Durrance  received  a  fortnight  later  at  Cairo. 
It  was  read  out  to  him  by  Calder,  who  had  obtained 
leave  to  come  down  from  Wadi  Haifa  with  his  friend. 
Ethne  wrote  that  she  had,  during  the  last  months,  con- 
sidered all  that  he  had  said  when  at  Glenalla  and  in 
London ;  she  had  read,  too,  his  letters  and  under- 
stood that  in  his  thoughts  of  her  there  had  been  no 
change,  and  that  there  would  be  none ;  she  therefore 
went  back  upon  her  old  argument  that  she  would,  by 
marriage,  be  doing  him  an  injury,  and  she  would 
marry  him  upon  his  return  to  England. 

"  That's  rough  luck,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Durrance,  when 
Calder  had  read  the  letter  through.  "  For  here's  the 
one  thing  I  have  always  wished  for,  and  it  comes 
when  I  can  no  longer  take  it." 

"  I  think  you  will  find  it  very  difficult  to  refuse  to 
take  it,"  said  Calder.  "  I  do  not  know.  Miss  Eustace, 
but  I  can  hazard  a  guess  from  the  letters  of  hers 
which  I  have  read  to  you.  I  do  not  think  that  she 
is  a  woman  who  will  say  '  yes '  one  day,  and  then 
because  bad  times  come  to  you  say  '  no '  the  next, 
or  allow  you  to  say  '  no '  for  her,  either.  I  have  a 
sort  of  notion  that  since  she  cares  for  you  and  you 


DURRANCE   SHARPENS   HIS    WITS         139 

for  her,  you  are  doing  little  less  than  insulting  her  if 
you  imagine  that  she  cannot  marry  you  and  still  be 
happy." 

Durrance  thought  over  that  aspect  of  the  question, 
and  began  to  wonder.  Calder  might  be  right.  Marriage 
with  a  blind  man !  It  might,  perhaps,  be  possible  if  upon 
both  sides  there  was  love,  and  the  letter  from  Ethne 
proved  —  did  it  not?  —  that  on  both  sides  there  was 
love.  Besides,  there  were  some  trivial  compensations 
which  might  help  to  make  her  sacrifice  less  burden- 
some. She  could  still  live  in  her  own  country  and  move 
in  her  own  home.  For  the  Lennon  house  could  be 
rebuilt  and  the  estates  cleared  of  their  debt. 

"  Besides,"  said  Calder,  "  there  is  always  a  possi- 
bility of  a  cure." 

"There  is  no  such  possibility,"  said  Durrance,  with 
a  decision  which  quite  startled  his  companion.  "  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do ; "  and  he  added  with  a 
laugh,  "  You  needn't  start  so  guiltily.  I  haven't 
overheard  a  word  of  any  of  your  conversations  about 
me." 

"  Then  what  in  the  world  makes  you  think  that 
there's  no  chance  ?" 

"  The  voice  of  every  doctor  who  has  encouraged  me 
to  hope.  Their  words  —  yes  —  their  words  tell  me 
to  visit  specialists  in  Europe,  and  not  lose  heart,  but 
their  voices  give  the  lie  to  their  words.  If  one  can- 
not see,  one  can  at  all  events  hear." 

Calder  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  friend.  This 
was  not  the  only  occasion  on  which  of  late  Durrance 
had  surprised  his  friends  by  an  unusual  acuteness. 
Calder  glanced  uncomfortably  at  the  letter  which  he 
was  still  holding  in  his  hand. 


140  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  When  was  that  letter  written  ? "  said  Durrance, 
suddenly ;  and  immediately  upon  the  question  he 
asked  another,  "  What  makes  you  jump  ?  " 

Calder  laughed  and  explained  hastily.  "Why,  I 
was  looking  at  the  letter  at  the  moment  when  you 
asked,  and  your  question  came  so  pat  that  I  could 
hardly  believe  you  did  not  see  what  I  was  doing.  It 
was  written  on  the  fifteenth  of  May." 

"  Ah,"  said  Durrance,  "  the  day  I  returned  to 
Wadi  Haifa  blind." 

Calder  sat  in  his  chair  without  a  movement.  He 
gazed  anxiously  at  his  companion,  it  seemed  almost 
as  though  he  were  afraid  ;  his  attitude  was  one  of 
suspense. 

"  That's  a  queer  coincidence,"  said  Durrance,  with 
a  careless  laugh  ;  and  Calder  had  an  intuition  that  he 
was  listening  with  the  utmost  intentness  for  some 
movement  on  his  own  part,  perhaps  a  relaxation  of  his 
attitude,  perhaps  a  breath  of  relief.  Calder  did  not 
move,  however ;  and  he  drew  no  breath  of  relief. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DURRANCE    BEGINS   TO    SEE 

Ethne  stood  at  the  drawing-room  window  of  the 
house  in  Hill  Street.  Mrs.  Adair  sat  in  front  of  her 
tea-table.  Both  women  were  waiting,  and  they  were 
both  listening  for  some  particular  sound  to  rise  up 
from  the  street  and  penetrate  into  the  room.  The 
window  stood  open  that  they  might  hear  it  the  more 
quickly.  It  was  half-past  five  in  the  afternoon.  June 
had  come  round  again  with  the  exhilaration  of  its  sun- 
light, and  London  had  sparkled  into  a  city  of  pleasure 
and  green  trees.  In  the  houses  opposite,  the  windows 
were  gay  with  flowers ;  and  in  the  street  below,  the 
carriages  rolled  easily  towards  the  Park.  A  jingle 
of  bells  rose  upwards  suddenly  and  grew  loud.  Mrs. 
Adair  raised  her  head  quickly. 

"  That's  a  cab,"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

Ethne  leaned  forward  and  looked  down.  "  But  it's 
not  stopping  here;  "  and  the  jingle  grew  fainter  and 
died  away. 

Mrs.  Adair  looked  at  the  clock. 

"  Colonel  Durrance  is  late,"  she  said,  and  she  turned 
curiously  towards  Ethne.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Ethne 
had  spoken  her  "yes"  with  much  more  of  suspense 
than  eagerness  ;  her  attitude  as  she  leaned  forward  at 
the  window  had  been  almost  one  of  apprehension ; 

141 


1 42  THE    FOUR    F ESTHERS 

and  though  Mrs.  Adair  was  not  quite  sure,  she  fancied 
that  she  detected  relief  when  the  cab  passed  by  the 
house  and  did  not  stop.  "  I  wonder  why  you  didn't 
go  to  the  station  and  meet  Colonel  Durrance  ? "  she 
asked  slowly. 

The  answer  came  promptly  enough. 

"  He  might  have  thought  that  I  had  come  because 
I  looked  upon  him  as  rather  helpless,  and  I  don't  wish 
him  to  think  that.  He  has  his  servant  with  him." 
Ethne  looked  again  out  of  the  window,  and  once  or 
twice  she  made  a  movement  as  if  she  was  about  to 
speak  and  then  thought  silence  the  better  part. 
Finally,  however,  she  made  up  her  mind. 

"  You  remember  the  telegram  I  showed  to  you  ? " 

"  From  Lieutenant  Calder,  saying  that  Colonel  Dur- 
rance had  gone  blind  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  want  you  to  promise  never  to  mention  it. 
I  don't  want  him  to  know  that  I  ever  received  it." 

Mrs.  Adair  was  puzzled,  and  she  hated  to  be  puzzled. 
She  had  been  shown  the  telegram,  but  she  had  not 
been  told  that  Ethne  had  written  to  Durrance,  pledg- 
ing herself  to  him  immediately  upon  its  receipt. 
Ethne,  when  she  showed  the  telegram,  had  merely 
said,  "  I  am  engaged  to  him."  Mrs.  Adair  at  once 
believed  that  the  engagement  had  been  of  some  stand- 
ing, and  she  had  been  allowed  to  continue  in  that 
belief. 

"  You  will  promise  ?  "  Ethne  insisted. 

"Certainly,  my  dear,  if  you  like,"  returned  Mrs. 
Adair,  with  an  ungracious  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 
"  But  there  is  a  reason,  I  suppose.  I  don't  under- 
stand why  you  exact  the  promise." 

"  Two  lives  must  not  be  spoilt  because  of  me." 


DURRANCE   BEGINS    TO    SEE  143 

There  was  some  ground  for  Mrs.  Adair's  suspicion 
that  Ethne  expected  the  blind  man  to  whom  she  was 
betrothed,  with  apprehension.  It  is  true  that  she  was 
a  little  afraid.  Just  twelve  months  had  passed  since, 
in  this  very  room,  on  just  such  a  sunlit  afternoon, 
Ethne  had  bidden  Durrance  try  to  forget  her,  and 
each  letter  which  she  had  since  received  had  shown 
that,  whether  he  tried  or  not,  he  had  not  forgotten. 
Even  that  last  one  received  three  weeks  ago,  the 
note  scrawled  in  the  handwriting  of  a  child,  from 
Wadi  Haifa,  with  the  large  unsteady  words  straggling 
unevenly  across  the  page,  and  the  letters  running  into 
one  another  wherein  he  had  told  his  calamity  and 
renounced  his  suit  —  even  that  proved,  and  perhaps 
more  surely  than  its  hopeful  forerunners  —  that  he 
had  not  forgotten.  As  she  waited  at  the  window  she 
understood  very  clearly  that  it  was  she  herself  who 
must  buckle  to  the  hard  work  of  forgetting.  Or  if 
that  was  impossible,  she  must  be  careful  always  that 
by  no  word  let  slip  in  a  forgetful  moment  she  betrayed 
that  she  had  not  forgotten. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  two  lives  shall  not  be  spoilt  be- 
cause of  me,"  and  she  turned  towards  Mrs.  Adair. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Ethne,"  said  Mrs.  Adair, 
"  that  the  two  lives  will  not  be  more  surely  spoilt  by 
this  way  of  yours  —  the  way  of  marriage  ?  Don't  you 
think  that  you  will  come  to  feel  Colonel  Durrance, 
in  spite  of  your  will,  something  of  a  hindrance  and  a 
drag  ?  Isn't  it  possible  that  he  may  come  to  feel  that 
too  ?     I  wonder.     I  very  much  wonder." 

"  No,"  said  Ethne,  decisively.  "  I  shall  not  feel  it, 
and  he  must  not." 

The  two  lives,  according  to  Mrs.  Adair,  were  not 


i44  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

the  lives  of  Durrance  and  Harry  Feversham,  but  of 
Durrance  and  Ethne  herself.  There  she  was  wrong; 
but  Ethne  did  not  dispute  the  point,  she  was  indeed 
rather  glad  that  her  friend  was  wrong,  and  she 
allowed  her  to  continue  in  her  wrong  belief. 

Ethne  resumed  her  watch  at  the  window,  foreseeing 
her  life,  planning  it  out  so  that  never  might  she  be 
caught  off  her  guard.  The  task  would  be  difficult, 
no  doubt,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  in  these  minutes 
while  she  waited  fear  grew  upon  her  lest  she  should 
fail.  But  the  end  was  well  worth  the  effort,  and  she 
set  her  eyes  upon  that.  Durrance  had  lost  everything 
which  made  life  to  him  worth  living  the  moment  he 
went  blind  —  everything,  except  one  thing.  "  What 
should  I  do  if  I  were  crippled  ?  "  he  had  said  to 
Harry  Feversham  on  the  morning  when  for  the  last 
time  they  had  ridden  together  in  the  Row.  "A 
clever  man  might  put  up  with  it.  But  what  should 
I  do  if  I  had  to  sit  in  a  chair  all  my  days  ?  "  Ethne 
had  not  heard  the  words,  but  she  understood  the  man 
well  enough  without  them.  He  was  by  birth  the 
inheritor  of  the  other  places,  and  he  had  lost  his 
heritage.  The  things  which  delighted  him,  the  long 
journeys,  the  faces  of  strange  countries,  the  camp- 
fire,  a  mere  spark  of  red  light  amidst  black  and  empty 
silence,  the  hours  of  sleep  in  the  open  under  bright 
stars,  the  cool  night  wind  of  the  desert,  and  the  work 
of  government  —  all  these  things  he  had  lost.  Only 
one  thing  remained  to  him  —  herself,  and  only,  as  she 
knew  very  well,  herself  so  long  as  he  could  believe 
she  wanted  him.  And  while  she  was  still  occupied 
with  her  resolve,  the  cab  for  which  she  waited  stopped 
unnoticed  at  the  door.     It  was  not  until  Durrance's 


DURRANCE    BEGINS    TO    SEE  145 

servant  had  actually  rung  the  bell  that  her  attention 
was  again  attracted  to  the  street. 

"  He  has  come !  "  she  said  with  a  start. 

Durrance,  it  was  true,  was  not  particularly  acute ; 
he  had  never  been  inquisitive  ;  he  took  his  friends  as 
he  found  them  ;  he  put  them  under  no  microscope. 
It  would  have  been  easy  at  any  time,  Ethne  reflected, 
to  quiet  his  suspicions,  should  he  have  ever  come  to 
entertain  any.  But  noiv  it  would  be  easier  than  ever. 
There  was  no  reason  for  apprehension.  Thus  she 
argued,  but  in  spite  of  the  argument  she  rather  nerved 
herself  to  an  encounter  than  went  forward  to  welcome 
her  betrothed. 

Mrs.  Adair  slipped  out  of  the  room,  so  that  Ethne 
was  alone  when  Durrance  entered  at  the  door.  She 
did  not  move  immediately ;  she  retained  her  attitude 
and  position,  expecting  that  the  change  in  him  would 
for  the  first  moment  shock  her.  But  she  was  sur- 
prised ;  for  the  particular  changes  which  she  had 
expected  were  noticeable  only  through  their' absence. 
His  face  was  worn,  no  doubt,  his  hair  had  gone  grey, 
but  there  was  no  air  of  helplessness  or  uncertainty, 
and  it  was  that  which  for  his  own  sake  she  most 
dreaded.  He  walked  forward  into  the  room  as 
though  his  eyes  saw ;  his  memory  seemed  to  tell  him 
exactly  where  each  piece  of  the  furniture  stood. 
The  most  that  he  did  was  once  or  twice  to  put  out  a 
hand  where  he  expected  a  chair. 

Ethne  drew  silently  back  into  the  window  rather  at 
a  loss  with  what  words  to  greet  him,  and  immediately 
he  smiled  and  came  straight  towards  her. 

"  Ethne,"  he  said. 

"It  isn't  true,  then,"  she  exclaimed.    "You  have 


146  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

recovered."  The  words  were  forced  from  her  by  the 
readiness  of  his  movement. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  and  I  have  not  recovered,"  he 
answered.  "  But  you  moved  at  the  window  and  so  I 
knew  that  you  were  there." 

"  How  did  you  know  ?     I  made  no  noise." 

"  No,  but  the  window's  open.  The  noise  in  the 
street  became  suddenly  louder,  so  I  knew  that  some 
one  in  front  of  the  window  had  moved  aside.  I 
guessed  that  it  was  you." 

Their  words  were  thus  not  perhaps  the  most  cus- 
tomary greeting  between  a  couple  meeting  on  the 
first  occasion  after  they  have  become  engaged,  but 
they  served  to  hinder  embarrassment.  Ethne  shrank 
from  any  perfunctory  expression  of  regret,  knowing 
that  there  was  no  need  for  it,  and  Durrance  had  no 
wish  to  hear  it.  For  there  were  many  things  which 
these  two  understood  each  other  well  enough  to  take 
as  said.  They  did  no  more  than  shake  hands  when 
they  had  spoken,  and  Ethne  moved  back  into  the  room. 

"  I  will  give  you  some  tea,"  she  said,  "then  we  can 
talk." 

"  Yes,  we  must  have  a  talk,  mustn't  we  ? "  Dur- 
rance answered  seriously.  He  threw  off  his  serious 
air,  however,  and  chatted  with  good  humour  about 
the  details  of  his  journey  home.  He  even  found  a 
subject  of  amusement  in  his  sense  of  helplessness 
during  the  first  days  of  his  blindness  ;  and  Ethne's 
apprehensions  rapidly  diminished.  They  had  indeed 
almost  vanished  from  her  mind  when  something  in  his 
attitude  suddenly  brought  them  back. 

"  I  wrote  to  you  from  Wadi  Haifa,"  he  said.  "  I 
don't  know  whether  you  could  read  the  letter." 


DURRANCE   BEGINS    TO    SEE  147 

"  Quite  well,"  said  Ethne. 

"  I  got  a  friend  of  mine  to  hold  the  paper  and  tell 
me  when  I  was  writing  on  it  or  merely  on  the  blotting- 
pad,"  he  continued  with  a  laugh.  "  Calder — of  the 
Sappers  —  but  you  don't  know  him." 

He  shot  the  name  out  rather  quickly,  and  it  came 
upon  Ethne  with  a  shock  that  he  had  set  a  trap  to 
catch  her.  The  curious  stillness  of  his  face  seemed 
to  tell  her  that  he  was  listening  with  an  extreme 
intentness  for  some  start,  perhaps  even  a  checked 
exclamation,  which  would  betray  that  she  knew  some- 
thing of  Calder  of  the  Sappers.  Did  he  suspect,  she 
asked  herself  ?  Did  he  know  of  the  telegram  ?  Did 
he  guess  that  her  letter  was  sent  out  of  pity  ?  She 
looked  into  Durrance's  face,  and  it  told  her  nothing 
except  that  it  was  very  alert.  In  the  old  days,  a  year 
ago,  the  expression  of  his  eyes  would  have  answered 
her  quite  certainly,  however  close  he  held  his  tongue. 

"I  could  read  the  letter  without  difficulty,"  she  an- 
swered gently.  "It  was  the  letter  you  would  have 
written.  But  I  had  written  to  you  before,  and  of 
course  your  bad  news  could  make  no  difference.  I 
take  back  no  word  of  what  I  wrote." 

Durrance  sat  with  his  hands  upon  his  knees,  lean- 
ing forward  a  little.  Again  Ethne  was  at  a  loss. 
She  could  not  tell  from  his  manner  or  his  face 
whether  he  accepted  or  questioned  her  answer  ;  and 
again  she  realised  that  a  year  ago  while  he  had  his 
sight  she  would  have  been  in  no  doubt. 

"Yes,  I  know  you.  You  would  take  nothing 
back,"  he  said  at  length.  "  But  there  is  my  point  of 
view." 

Ethne  looked  at  him  with  apprehension. 


148  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

"Yes?"  she  replied,  and  she  strove  to  speak  with 
unconcern.     "  Will  you  tell  me  it  ? " 

Durrance  assented,  and  began  in  the  deliberate 
voice  of  a  man  who  has  thought  out  his  subject, 
knows  it  by  heart,  and  has  decided,  moreover,  the 
order  of  words  by  which  it  will  be  most  lucidly 
developed. 

"I  know  what  blindness  means  to  all  men — a 
growing,  narrowing  egotism  unless  one  is  perpetually 
on  one's  guard.  And  will  one  be  perpetually  on 
one's  guard?  Blindness  means  that  to  all  men," 
he  repeated  emphatically.  "  But  it  must  mean  more 
to  me,  who  am  deprived  of  every  occupation.  If  I 
were  a  writer,  I  could  still  dictate.  If  I  were  a  busi- 
ness man,  I  could  conduct  my  business.  But  I  am  a 
soldier,  and  not  a  clever  soldier.  Jealousy,  a  contin- 
ual and  irritable  curiosity  —  there  is  no  Paul  Pry  like 
your  blind  man  —  a  querulous  claim  upon  your  atten- 
tion —  these  are  my  special  dangers."  And  Ethne 
laughed  gently  in  contradiction  of  his  argument. 

"Well,  perhaps  one  may  hold  them  off,"  he 
acknowledged,  "  but  they  are  to  be  considered.  I 
have  considered  them.  I  am  not  speaking  to  you 
without  thought.  I  have  pondered  and  puzzled  over 
the  whole  matter  night  after  night  since  I  got  your 
letter,  wondering  what  I  should  do.  You  know  how 
gladly,  with  what  gratitude,  I  would  have  answered 
you,  '  Yes,  let  the  marriage  go  on,'  if  I  dared.  If 
I  dared!  But  I  think  —  don't  you? — that  a  great 
trouble  rather  clears  one's  wits.  I  used  to  lie  awake 
at  Cairo  and  think ;  and  the  unimportant  trivial  con- 
siderations gradually  dropped  away ;  and  a  few 
straight  and  simple  truths  stood  out  rather  vividly. 


DURRANCE   BEGINS    TO    SEE  149 

One  felt  that  one  had  to  cling  to  them  and  with  all 
one's  might,  because  nothing  else  was  left." 

"Yes,  that  I  do  understand,"  Ethne  replied  in  a 
low  voice.  She  had  gone  through  just  such  an  expe- 
rience herself.  It  might  have  been  herself,  and  not 
Durrance,  who  was  speaking.  She  looked  up  at  him, 
and  for  the  first  time  began  to  understand  that  after 
all  she  and  he  might  have  much  in  common.  She 
repeated  over  to  herself  with  an  even  firmer  determi- 
nation, "  Two  lives  shall  not  be  spoilt  because  of  me." 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

"  Well,  here's  one  of  the  very  straight  and  simple 
truths.  Marriage  between  a  man  crippled  like  myself, 
whose  life  is  done,  and  a  woman  like  you,  active  and 
young,  whose  life  is  in  its  flower,  would  be  quite  wrong 
unless  each  brought  to  it  much  more  than  friendship. 
It  would  be  quite  wrong  if  it  implied  a  sacrifice  for  you." 

"  It  implies  no  sacrifice,"  she  answered  firmly. 

Durrance  nodded.  It  was  evident  that  the  answer 
contented  him,  and  Ethne  felt  that  it  was  the  intona- 
tion to  which  he  listened  rather  than  the  words.  His 
very  attitude  of  concentration  showed  her  that.  She 
began  to  wonder  whether  it  would  be  so  easy  after 
all  to  quiet  his  suspicions  now  that  he  was  blind ;  she 
began  to  realise  that  it  might  possibly  on  that  very 
account  be  all  the  more  difficult. 

"  Then  do  you  bring  more  than  friendship  ? "  he 
asked  suddenly.  "  You  will  be  very  honest,  I  know. 
Tell  me." 

Ethne  was  in  a  quandary.  She  knew  that  she 
must  answer,  and  at  once  and  without  ambiguity.  In 
addition,  she  musj;  answer  honestly. 

"There  is  nothing,"  she  replied,  and  as  firmly  as 


150  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

before,  "  nothing  in  the  world  which  I  wish  for  so 
earnestly  as  that  you  and  I  should  marry." 

It  was  an  honest  wish,  and  it  was  honestly  spoken. 
She  knew  nothing  of  the  conversation  which  had 
passed  between  Harry  Feversham  and  Lieutenant 
Sutch  in  the  grill-room  of  the  Criterion  Restaurant ; 
she  knew  nothing  of  Harry's  plans;  she  had  not 
heard  of  the  Gordon  letters  recovered  from  the  mud- 
wall  of  a  ruined  house  in  the  city  of  the  Dervishes  on 
the  Nile  bank.  Harry  Feversham  had,  so  far  as  she 
knew  and  meant,  gone  forever  completely  out  of  her 
life.  Therefore  her  wish  was  an  honest  one.  But  it 
was  not  an  exact  answer  to  Durrance's  question,  and 
she  hoped  that  again  he  would  listen  to  the  intona- 
tion, rather  than  to  the  words.  However,  he  seemed 
content  with  it. 

"Thank  you,  Ethne,"  he  said,  and  he  took  her 
hand  and  shook  it.  His  face  smiled  at  her.  He 
asked  no  other  questions.  There  was  not  a  doubt, 
she  thought ;  his  suspicions  were  quieted ;  he  was 
quite  content.  And  upon  that  Mrs.  Adair  came  with 
discretion  into  the  room. 

She  had  the  tact  to  greet  Durrance  as  one  who 
suffered  under  no  disadvantage,  and  she  spoke  as 
though  she  had  seen  him  only  the  week  before. 

"  I  suppose  Ethne  has  told  you  of  our  plan,"  she 
said,  as  she  took  her  tea  from  her  friend's  hand. 

"  No,  not  yet,"  Ethne  answered. 

"  What  plan  ?  "  asked  Durrance. 

"It  is  all  arranged,"  said  Mrs.  Adair.  "You  will 
want  to  go  home  to  Guessens  in  Devonshire.  I  am 
your  neighbour  —  a  couple  of  fields  separate  us,  that's 
all.  So  Ethne  will  stay  with  me  during  the  interval 
before  you  are  married." 


DURRANCE   BEGINS    TO    SEE  151 

"That's  very  kind  of  yon,  Mrs.  Adair,"  Durrance 
exclaimed ;  "  because,  of  course,  there  will  be  an 
interval." 

"  A  short  one,  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Adair. 

"Well,  it's  this  way.  If  there's  a  chance  that  I 
may  recover  my  sight,  it  would  be  better  that  I 
should  seize  it  at  once.  Time  means  a  good  deal  in 
these  cases." 

"Then  there  is  a  chance  ?  "  cried  Ethne. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  a  specialist  here  to-morrow," 
Durrance  answered.  "  And,  of  course,  there's  the 
oculist  at  Wiesbaden.  But  it  may  not  be  necessary 
to  go  so  far.  I  expect  that  I  shall  be  able  to  stay 
at  Guessens  and  come  up  to  London  when  it  is  nec- 
essary. Thank  you  very  much,  Mrs.  Adair.  It  is  a 
good  plan."  And  he  added  slowly,  "  From  my  point 
of  view  there  could  be  no  better. 

Ethne  watched  Durrance  drive  away  with  his  ser- 
vant to  his  old  rooms  in  St.  James's  Street,  and  stood 
by  the  window  after  he  had  gone,  in  much  the  same 
attitude  and  absorption  as  that  which  had  characterised 
her  before  he  had  come.  Outside  in  the  street  the 
carriages  were  now  coming  back  from  the  park,  and 
there  was -just  one  other  change.  Ethne's  apprehen- 
sions had  taken  a  more  definite  shape. 

She  believed  that  suspicion  was  quieted  in  Durrance 
for  to-day,  at  all  events.  She  had  not  heard  his  con- 
versation with  Calder  in  Cairo.  She  did  not  know 
that  he  believed  there  was  no  cure  which  could  re- 
store him  to  sight.  She  had  no  remotest  notion  that 
the  possibility  of  a  remedy  might  be  a  mere  excuse. 
But  none  the  less  she  was  uneasy.  Durrance  had 
grown  more  acute.     Not  only  his  senses  had   been 


152  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

sharpened, — that,  indeed,  was  to  be  expected, — but 
trouble  and  thought  had  sharpened  his  mind  as  well. 
It  had  become  more  penetrating.  She  felt  that  she 
was  entering  upon  an  encounter  of  wits,  and  she  had 
a  fear  lest  she  should  be  worsted.  "  Two  lives  shall 
not  be  spoilt  because  of  me,"  she  repeated,  but  it  was 
a  prayer  now,  rather  than  a  resolve.  For  one  thing 
she  recognised  quite  surely :  Durrance  saw  ever  so 
much  more  clearly  now  that  he  was  blind. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CAPTAIN  WILLOUGHBY  REAPPEARS 

During  the  months  of  July  and  August  Ethne's 
apprehensions  grew,  and  once  at  all  events  they 
found  expression  on  her  lips. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  one  morning,  as  she  stood 
in  the  sunlight  at  an  open  window  of  Mrs.  Adair's 
house  upon  a  creek  of  the  Salcombe  estuary.  In  the 
room  behind  her  Mrs.  Adair  smiled  quietly. 

"Of  what?  That  some  accident  happened  to 
Colonel  Durrance  yesterday  in  London  ? " 

"  No,"  Ethne  answered  slowly,  "  not  of  that.  For 
he  is  at  this  moment  crossing  the  lawn  towards  us." 

Again  Mrs.  Adair  smiled,  but  she  did  not  raise  her 
head  from  the  book  which  she  was  reading,  so  that 
it  might  have  been  some  passage  in  the  book  which 
so  amused  and  pleased  her. 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  said,  but  in  so  low  a  voice  that 
the  words  barely  reached  Ethne's  ears.  They  did 
not  penetrate  to  her  mind,  for  as  she  looked  across 
the  stone-flagged  terrace  and  down  the  broad  shallow 
flight  of  steps  to  the  lawn,  she  asked  abruptly :  — 

"  Do  you  think  he  has  any  hope  whatever  that  he 
will  recover  his  sight  ?  " 

The  question  had  not  occurred  to  Mrs.  Adair  before, 
and  she  gave  to  it  now  no  importance  in  her  thoughts. 

"  Would  he  travel  up  to  town  so  often  to  see  his 

i53 


i54  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

oculist  if  he  had  none  ? "  she  asked  in  reply.     "  Of 
course  he  hopes." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Ethne,  and  she  turned  with  a 
sudden  movement  towards  her  friend.  "  Haven't 
you  noticed  how  quick  he  has  grown  and  is  growing  ? 
Quick  to  interpret  your  silences,  to  infer  what  you  do 
not  say  from  what  you  do,  to  fill  out  your  sentences, 
to  make  your  movements  the  commentary  of  your 
words  ?  Laura,  haven't  you  noticed  ?  At  times  I 
think  the  very  corners  of  my  mind  are  revealed  to 
him.     He  reads  me  like  a  child's  lesson  book." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Adair,  "you  are  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. You  no  longer  have  your  face  to  screen  your 
thoughts." 

"  And  his  eyes  no  longer  tell  me  anything  at  all," 
Ethne  added. 

There  was  truth  in  both  remarks.  So  long  as  Dur- 
rance  had  had  Ethne's  face  with  its  bright  colour  and 
her  steady,  frank,  grey  eyes  visible  before  him,  he 
could  hardly  weigh  her  intervals  of  silence  and  her 
movements  against  her  spoken  words  with  the  de- 
tachment which  was  now  possible  to  him.  On  the 
other  hand,  whereas  before  she  had  never  been 
troubled  by  a  doubt  as  to  what  he  meant  or  wished, 
or  intended,  now  she  was  often  in  the  dark.  Dur- 
rance's  blindness,  in  a  word,  had  produced  an  effect 
entirely  opposite  to  that  which  might  have  been 
expected.     It  had  reversed  their  positions. 

Mrs.  Adair,  however,  was  more  interested  in 
Ethne's  unusual  burst  of  confidence.  There  was  no 
doubt  of  it,  she  reflected.  The  girl,  once  remarkable 
for  a  quiet  frankness  of  word  and  look,  was  declin- 
ing into  a  creature  of  shifts  and  agitation. 


CAPTAIN    WILLOUGHBT  REAPPEARS      155 

"  There  is  something,  then,  to  be  concealed  from 
him  ? "  she  asked  quietly. 

"Yes." 

"  Something  rather  important  ?  " 

"  Something  which  at  all  costs  I    must   conceal," 
Ethne  exclaimed,  and  was  not  sure,  even  while  she 
spoke,  that  Durrance  had  not  already  found  it  out. 
She  stepped  over  the  threshold  of  the  window  on  to 
the  terrace.     In  front  of  her  the  lawn  stretched  to 
a  hedge ;  on  the  far  side  of  that  hedge  a  couple  of 
grass  fields  lifted  and  fell  in  gentle  undulations  ;  and 
beyond  the  fields  she  could  see  amongst  a  cluster  of 
trees  the  smoke  from  the  chimneys  of  Colonel  Dur- 
rance's  house.     She  stood  for  a  little  while  hesitating 
upon  the  terrace.     On  the  left  the  lawn  ran  down  to 
a  line  of  tall  beeches  and  oaks  which  fringed  the 
creek.     But  a  broad  space  had  been  cleared  to  make 
a  gap  upon  the  bank,  so  that  Ethne  could  see  the 
sunlight  on  the  water  and  the  wooded  slope  on  the 
farther    side,    and    a   sailing-boat    some   way   down 
the    creek   tacking    slowly   against   the   light   wind. 
Ethne  looked  about  her,  as  though  she  was  summon- 
ing her  resources,  and  even  composing  her  sentences 
ready   for   delivery   to   the   man    who    was   walking 
steadily  towards  her  across  the  lawn.     If  there  was 
hesitation  upon  her  part,  there  was  none  at  all,  she 
noticed,  on  the  part  of   the  blind  man.     It  seemed 
that  Durrance's  eyes  took  in  the  path  which  his  feet 
trod,  and  with  the  stick  which  he  carried  in  his  hand 
he  switched  at  the  blades  of  grass  like  one  that  car- 
ries it  from  habit   rather  than  for  any  use.     Ethne 
descended  the  steps  and  advanced  to  meet  him,     She 
walked  slowly,  as  if  to  a  difficult  encounter. 


156  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

But  there  was  another  who  only  waited  an  oppor- 
tunity to  engage  in  it  with  eagerness.  For  as  Ethne 
descended  the  steps  Mrs.  Adair  suddenly  dropped 
the  book  which  she  had  pretended  to  resume  and  ran 
towards  the  window.  Hidden  by  the  drapery  of  the 
curtain  she  looked  out  and  watched.  The  smile  was 
still  upon  her  lips,  but  a  fierce  light  had  brightened 
in  her  eyes,  and  her  face  had  the  drawn  look  of 
hunger. 

"Something  which  at  all  costs  she  must  conceal," 
she  said  to  herself,  and  she  said  it  in  a  voice  of  ex- 
ultation. There  was  contempt  too  in  her  tone,  con- 
tempt for  Ethne  Eustace,  the  woman  of  the  open  air 
who  was  afraid,  who  shrank  from  marriage  with  a 
blind  man,  and  dreaded  the  restraint  upon  her  free- 
dom. It  was  that  shrinking  which  Ethne  had  to  con- 
ceal—  Mrs.  Adair  had  no  doubt  of  it.  "For  my 
part,  I  am  glad,"  she  said,  and  she  was  —  fiercely 
glad  that  blindness  had  disabled  Durrance.  For  if 
her  opportunity  ever  came,  as  it  seemed  to  her  now 
more  and  more  likely  to  come,  blindness  reserved  him 
to  her,  as  no  man  was  ever  reserved  to  any  woman. 
So  jealous  was  she  of  his  every  word  and  look  that 
his  dependence  upon  her  would  be  the  extreme  of 
pleasure.  She  watched  Ethne  and  Durrance  meet 
on  the  lawn  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  steps.  She 
saw  them  turn  and  walk  side  by  side  across  the  grass 
towards  the  creek.  She  noticed  that  Ethne  seemed 
to  plead,  and  in  her  heart  she  longed  to  overhear. 

And  Ethne  was  pleading. 

"  You  saw  your  oculist  yesterday  ? "  she  asked 
quickly,  as  soon  as  they  met.  "  Well,  what  did  he 
say  ? " 


CAPTAIN   WILLOUGHBT  REAPPEARS      157 

Durrance  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  That  one  must  wait.  Only  time  can  show  whether 
a  cure  is  possible  or  not,"  he  answered,  and  Ethne 
bent  forward  a  little  and  scrutinised  his  face  as  though 
she  doubted  that  he  spoke  the  truth. 

"  But  must  you  and  I  wait  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Surely,"  he  returned.  "  It  would  be  wiser  on  all 
counts."  And  thereupon  he  asked  her  suddenly  a 
question  of  which  she  did  not  see  the  drift.  "  It  was 
Mrs.  Adair,  I  imagine,  who  proposed  this  plan  that 
I  should  come  home  to  Guessens  and  that  you  should 
stay  with  her  here  across  the  fields  ?  " 

Ethne  was  puzzled  by  the  question,  but  she  answered 
it  directly  and  truthfully.  "  I  was  in  great  distress 
when  I  heard  of  your  accident.  I  was  so  distressed 
that  at  the  first  I  could  not  think  what  to  do.  I  came 
to  London  and  told  Laura,  since  she  is  my  friend,  and 
this  was  her  plan.  Of  course  I  welcomed  it  with  all 
my  heart ;  "  and  the  note  of  pleading  rang  in  her 
voice.  She  was  asking  Durrance  to  confirm  her 
words,  and  he  understood  that.  He  turned  towards 
her  with  a  smile. 

"  I  know  that  very  well,  Ethne,"  he  said  gently. 

Ethne  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  and  the  anxiety  passed 
for  a  little  while  from  her  face. 

"  It  was  kind  of  Mrs.  Adair,"  he  resumed,  "but  it 
is  rather  hard  on  you,  who  would  like  to  be  back  in 
your  own  country.  I  remember  very  well  a  sentence 
which  Harry  Feversham  — "  He  spoke  the  name 
quite  carelessly,  but  paused  just  for  a  moment  after 
he  had  spoken  it.  No  expression  upon  his  face 
showed  that  he  had  any  intention  in  so  pausing, 
but   Ethne   suspected   one.     He  was   listening,  she 


158  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

suspected,  for  some  movement  of  uneasiness,  per- 
haps of  pain,  into  which  she  might  possibly  be  be- 
trayed. But  she  made  no  movement.  "  A  sentence 
which  Harry  Feversham  spoke  a  long  while  since," 
he  continued,  "in  London  just  before  I  left  London 
for  Egypt.  He  was  speaking  of  you,  and  he  said : 
'  She  is  of  her  country  and  more  of  her  county.  I 
do  not  think  she  could  be  happy  in  any  place  which 
was  not  within  reach  of  Donegal'  And  when  I 
remember  that,  it  seems  rather  selfish  that  I  should 
claim  to  keep  you  here  at  so  much  cost  to  you." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  that,"  Ethne  exclaimed, 
"  when  I  asked  why  we  must  wait.  That  makes  me 
out  most  selfish.  I  was  ^merely  wondering  why  you 
preferred  to  wait,  why  you  insist  upon  it.  For,  of 
course,  although  one  hopes  and  prays  with  all  one's 
soul  that  you  will  get  your  sight  back,  the  fact  of  a 
cure  can  make  no  difference." 

She  spoke  slowly,  and  her  voice  again  had  a  ring 
of  pleading.  This  time  Durrance  did  not  confirm  her 
words,  and  she  repeated  them  with  a  greater  emphasis, 
"  It  can  make  no  difference." 

Durrance  started  like  a  man  roused  from  an 
abstraction. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Ethne,"  he  said.  "  I  was  think- 
ing at  the  moment  of  Harry  Feversham.  There  is 
something  which  I  want  you  to  tell  me.  You  said  a 
long  time  ago  at  Glenalla  that  you  might  one  day 
bring  yourself  to  tell  it  me,  and  I  should  rather  like 
to  know  now.  You  see,  Harry  Feversham  was  my 
friend.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  happened  that 
night  at  Lennon  House  to  break  off  your  engagement, 
to  send  him  away  an  outcast." 


CAPTAIN    WILLOVGHBT   REAPPEARS      159 

Ethne  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  she  said 
gently  :  "  I  would  rather  not.  It  is  all  over  and  done 
with.     I  don't  want  you  to  ask  me  ever." 

Durrance  did  not  press  for  an  answer  in  the  slightest 
degree. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  cheerily,  "  I  won't  ask  you. 
It  might  hurt  you  to  answer,  and  I  don't  want,  of 
course,  to  cause  you  pain." 

"It's  not  on  that  account  that  I  wish  to  say 
nothing,"  Ethne  explained  earnestly.  She  paused 
and  chose  her  words.  "  It  isn't  that  I  am  afraid 
of  any  pain.  But  what  took  place,  took  place  such 
a  long  while  ago  —  I  look  upon  Mr.  Feversham  as  a 
man  whom  one  has  known  well,  and  who  is  now 
dead." 

They  were  walking  toward  the  wide  gap  in  the  line 
of  trees  upon  the  bank  of  the  creek,  and  as  Ethne 
spoke  she  raised  her  eyes  from  the  ground.  She  saw 
that  the  little  boat  which  she  had  noticed  tacking  up 
the  creek  while  she  hesitated  upon  the  terrace  had 
run  its  nose  into  the  shore.  The  sail  had  been  lowered, 
the  little  pole  mast  stuck  up  above  the  grass  bank  of 
the  garden,  and  upon  the  bank  itself  a  man  was 
standing  and  staring  vaguely  towards  the  house  as 
though  not  very  sure  of  his  ground. 

"  A  stranger  has  landed  from  the  creek,"  she  said. 
"  He  looks  as  if  he  had  lost  his  way.  I  will  go  on 
and  put  him  right." 

She  ran  forward  as  she  spoke,  seizing  upon  that 
stranger's  presence  as  a  means  of  relief,  even  if  the 
relief  was  only  to  last  for  a  minute.  Such  relief 
might  be  felt,  she  imagined,  by  a  witness  in  a  court 
when  the  judge  rises  for  his  half-hour  at  luncheon- 


160  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

time.  For  the  close  of  an  interview  with  Durrance 
left  her  continually  with  the  sense  that  she  had  just 
stepped  down  from  a  witness-box  where  she  had  been 
subjected  to  a  cross-examination  so  deft  that  she 
could  not  quite  clearly  perceive  its  tendency,  although 
from  the  beginning  she  suspected  it. 

The  stranger  at  the  same  time  advanced  to  her. 
He  was  a  man  of  the  middle  size,  with  a  short  snub 
nose,  a  pair  of  vacuous  protruding  brown  eyes,  and  a 
moustache  of  some  ferocity.  He  lifted  his  hat  from 
his  head  and  disclosed  a  round  forehead  which  was 
going  bald. 

"  I  have  sailed  down  from  Kingsbridge,"  he  said, 
"but  I  have  never  been  in  this  part  of  the  world  be- 
fore.   Can  you  tell  me  if  this  house  is  called  The  Pool?" 

"  Yes ;  you  will  find  Mrs.  Adair  if  you  go  up  the 
steps  on  to  the  terrace,"  said  Ethne. 

"  I  came  to  see  Miss  Eustace." 

Ethne  turned  back  to  him  with  surprise. 

"  I  am  Miss  Eustace." 

The  stranger  contemplated  her  in  silence. 

"  So  I  thought." 

He  twirled  first  one  moustache  and  then  the  other 
before  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  have  had  some  trouble  to  find  you,  Miss  Eustace. 
I  went  all  the  way  to  Glenalla — for  nothing.  Rather 
hard  on  a  man  whose  leave  is  short!  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Ethne,  with  a  smile ;  "  but 
why  have  you  been  put  to  this  trouble  ?  " 

Again  the  stranger  curled  a  moustache.  Again 
his  eyes  dwelt  vacantly  upon  her  before  he  spoke. 

"  You  have  forgotten  my  name,  no  doubt,  by  this 
time." 


CAPTAIN    WILLOUGHBT  REAPPEARS      161 

"I  do  not  think  that  I  have  ever  heard  it,"  she 
answered. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have,  believe  me.  You  heard  it  five 
years  ago.     I  am  Captain  Willoughby." 

Ethne  drew  sharply  back  ;  the  bright  colour  paled 
in  her  cheeks;  her  lips  set  in  a  firm  line,  and  her 
eyes  grew  very  hard.     She  glowered  at  him  silently. 

Captain  Willoughby  was  not  in  the  least  degree 
discomposed.  He  took  his  time  to  speak,  and  when 
he  did  it  was  rather  with  the  air  of  a  man  forgiving  a 
breach  of  manners,  than  of  one  making  his  excuses. 

"  I  can  quite  understand  that  you  do  not  welcome 
me,  Miss  Eustace,  but  none  of  us  could  foresee  that 
you  would  be  present  when  the  three  white  feathers 
came  into  Feversham's  hands." 

Ethne  swept  the  explanation  aside. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  was  present  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Feversham  told  me." 

"You  have  seen  him?  " 

The  cry  leaped  loudly  from  her  lips.  It  was  just 
a  throb  of  the  heart  made  vocal.  It  startled  Ethne 
as  much  as  it  surprised  Captain  Willoughby.  She 
had  schooled  herself  to  omit  Harry  Feversham  from 
her  thoughts,  and  to  obliterate  him  from  her  affec- 
tions, and  the  cry  showed  to  her  how  incompletely 
she  had  succeeded.  Only  a  few  minutes  since  she 
had  spoken  of  him  as  one  whom  she  looked  upon  as 
dead,  and  she  had  believed  that  she  spoke  the  truth. 

"  You  have  actually  seen  him  ? "  she  repeated  in  a 
wondering  voice.  She  gazed  at  her  stolid  companion 
with  envy.  "  You  have  spoken  to  him  ?  And  he  to 
you  ?     When  ? " 

M 


1 62  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"A  year  ago,  at  Suakin.  Else  why  should  I  be 
here  ? " 

The  question  came  as  a  shock  to  Ethne.  She  did 
not  guess  the  correct  answer ;  she  was  not,  indeed, 
sufficiently  mistress  of  herself  to  speculate  upon  any 
answer,  but  she  dreaded  it,  whatever  it  might  be. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  and  almost  reluctantly. 
"  After  all,  why  are  you  here  ?  " 

Willoughby  took  a  letter-case  from  his  breast, 
opened  it  with  deliberation,  and  shook  out  from  one 
of  its  pockets  into  the  palm  of  his  hand  a  tiny, 
soiled,  white  feather.     He  held  it  out  to  Ethne. 

"  I  have  come  to  give  you  this." 

Ethne  did  not  take  it.  In  fact,  she  positively 
shrank  from  it. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked  unsteadily. 

"  Three  white  feathers,  three  separate  accusations 
of  cowardice,  were  sent  to  Feversham  by  three  sepa- 
rate men.  This  is  actually  one  of  those  feathers 
which  were  forwarded  from  his  lodgings  to  Ramel- 
ton  five  years  ago.  I  am  one  of  the  three  men  who 
sent  them.  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  withdraw 
my  accusation.     I  take  my  feather  back." 

"  And  you  bring  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  He  asked  me  to." 

Ethne  took  the  feather  in  her  palm,  a  thing  in 
itself  so  light  and  fragile  and  yet  so  momentous  as  a 
symbol,  and  the  trees  and  the  garden  began  to  whirl 
suddenly  about  her.  She  was  aware  that  Captain 
Willoughby  was  speaking,  but  his  voice  had  grown 
extraordinarily  distant  and  thin;  so  that  she  was 
annoyed,  since  she  wished  very  much  to  hear  all  that 
he  had  to  say.     She  felt  very  cold,  even  upon  that 


CAPTAIN    WILLOUGHBY   REAPPEARS      163 

August  day  of  sunlight.  But  the  presence  of  Cap- 
tain Willoughby,  one  of  the  three  men  whom  she 
never  would  forgive,  helped  her  to  command  herself. 
She  would  give  no  exhibition  of  weakness  before  any 
one  of  the  detested  three,  and  with  an  effort  she 
recovered  herself  when  she  was  on  the  very  point  of 
swooning. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "I  will  hear  your  story.  Your 
news  was  rather  a  shock  to  me.  Even  now  I  do  not 
quite  understand." 

She  led  the  way  from  that  open  space  to  a  little 
plot  of  grass  above  the  creek.  On  three  sides  thick 
hedges  enclosed  it,  at  the  back  rose  the  tall  elms  and 
poplars,  in  front  the  water  flashed  and  broke  in  ripples, 
and  beyond  the  water  the  trees  rose  again  and  were 
overtopped  by  sloping  meadows.  A  gap  in  the 
hedge  made  an  entrance  into  this  enclosure,  and  a 
garden-seat  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  grass. 

"  Now,"  said  Ethne,  and  she  motioned  to  Captain 
Willoughby  to  take  a  seat  at  her  side.  "You  will 
take  your  time,  perhaps.  You  will  forget  nothing. 
Even  his  words,  if  you  remember  them !  I  shall 
thank  you  for  his  words."  She  held  that  white 
feather  clenched  in  her  hand.  Somehow  Harry 
Feversham  had  redeemed  his  honour,  somehow  she 
had  been  unjust  to  him  ;  and  she  was  to  learn  how. 
She  was  in  no  hurry.  She  did  not  even  feel  one 
pang  of  remorse  that  she  had  been  unjust.  Remorse, 
no  doubt,  would  come  afterwards.  At  present  the 
mere  knowledge  that  she  had  been  unjust  was  too 
great  a  happiness  to  admit  of  abatement.  She 
opened  her  hand  and  looked  at  the  feather.  And  as 
she  looked,  memories  sternly  repressed  for  so  long, 


164  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

regrets  which  she  had  thought  stifled  quite  out  of 
life,  longings  which  had  grown  strange,  filled  all  her 
thoughts.  The  Devonshire  meadows  were  about  her, 
the  salt  of  the  sea  was  in  the  air,  but  she  was  back 
again  in  the  midst  of  that  one  season  at  Dublin  during 
a  spring  five  years  ago,  before  the  feathers  came  to 
Ramelton. 

Willoughby  began  to  tell  his  story,  and  almost  at 
once  even  the  memory  of  that  season  vanished. 

Ethne  was  in  the  most  English  of  counties,  the 
county  of  Plymouth  and  Dartmouth  and  Brixham  and 
the  Start,  where  the  red  cliffs  of  its  coast-line  speak 
perpetually  of  dead  centuries,  so  that  one  cannot  put 
into  any  harbour  without  some  thought  of  the  Span- 
ish Main  and  of  the  little  barques  and  pinnaces  which 
adventured  manfully  out  on  their  long  voyages  with 
the  tide.  Up  this  very  creek  the  clink  of  the  ship- 
builders' hammers  had  rung,  and  the  soil  upon  its 
banks  was  vigorous  with  the  memories  of  British 
sailors.  But  Ethne  had  no  thought  for  these 
associations.  The  country-side  was  a  shifting  mist 
before  her  eyes,  which  now  and  then  let  through  a 
glimpse  of  that  strange  wide  country  in  the  East,  of 
which  Durrance  had  so  often  told  her.  The  only 
trees  which  she  saw  were  the  stunted  mimosas  of  the 
desert ;  the  only  sea  the  great  stretches  of  yellow 
sand ;  the  only  cliffs  the  sharp-peaked  pyramidal 
black  rocks  rising  abruptly  from  its  surface.  It  was 
part  of  the  irony  of  her  position  that  she  was  able  so 
much  more  completely  to  appreciate  the  trials  which 
one  lover  of  hers  had  undergone  through  the  confi- 
dences which  had  been  made  to  her  by  the  other. 


CHAPTER    XV 

THE    STORY    OF   THE    FIRST    FEATHER 

"  I  will  not  interrupt  you,"  said  Ethne,  as  Wil- 
loughby  took  his  seat  beside  her,  and  he  had  barely 
spoken  a  score  of  words  before  she  broke  that 
promise. 

"  I  am  Deputy-Governor  of  Suakin,"  he  began. 
"  My  chief  was  on  leave  in  May.  You  are  fortunate 
enough  not  to  know  Suakin,  Miss  Eustace,  particu- 
larly in  May.  No  white  woman  can  live  in  that 
town.  It  has  a  sodden  intolerable  heat  peculiar  to 
itself.  The  air  is  heavy  with  brine ;  you  can't  sleep 
at  night  for  its  oppression.  Well,  I  was  sitting  in  the 
verandah  on  the  first  floor  of  the  palace  about  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  looking  out  over  the  harbour  and 
the  distillation  works,  and  wondering  whether  it  was 
worth  while  to  go  to  bed  at  all,  when  a  servant  told 
me  that  a  man,  who  refused  to  give  his  name,  wished 
particularly  to  see  me.  The  man  was  Feversham. 
There  was  only  a  lamp  burning  in  the  verandah,  and 
the  night  was  dark,  so  that  I  did  not  recognise  him 
until  he  was  close  to  me." 

And  at  once  Ethne  interrupted. 

"  How  did  he  look  ?  " 

Willoughby  wrinkled  his  forehead  and  opened  his 
eyes  wide. 

"  Really,  I  do  not  know,"  he  said  doubtfully.  "  Much 

165 


1 66  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

like  other  men,  I  suppose,  who  have  been  a  year  or 
two  in  the  Soudan,  a  trifle  overtrained  and  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Ethne,  with  a  sigh  of  disap- 
pointment. For  five  years  she  had  heard  no  word  of 
Harry  Feversham.  She  fairly  hungered  for  news  of 
him,  for  the  sound  of  his  habitual  phrases,  for  the 
description  of  his  familiar  gestures.  She  had  the 
woman's  anxiety  for  his  bodily  health,  she  wished  to 
know  whether  he  had  changed  in  face  or  figure,  and, 
if  so,  how  and  in  what  measure.  But  she  glanced  at 
the  obtuse,  unobservant  countenance  of  Captain  Wil- 
loughby,  and  she  understood  that  however  much  she 
craved  for  these  particulars,  she  must  go  without. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  go  on  ?  " 
"  I  asked  him  what  he  wanted,"  Willoughby  re- 
sumed, "  and  why  he  had  not  sent  in  his  name.  '  You 
would  not  have  seen  me  if  I  had,'  he  replied,  and  he 
drew  a  packet  of  letters  out  of  his  pocket.  Now, 
those  letters,  Miss  Eustace,  had  been  written  a  long 
while  ago  by  General  Gordon  in  Khartum.  They  had 
been  carried  down  the  Nile  as  far  as  Berber.  But  the 
day  after  they  reached  Berber,  that  town  surrendered 
to  the  Mahdists.  Abou  Fatma,  the  messenger  who 
carried  them,  hid  them  in  the  wall  of  the  house  of  an 
Arab  called  Yusef,  who  sold  rock-salt  in  the  market- 
place. Abou  was  then  thrown  into  prison  on  sus- 
picion, and  escaped  to  Suakin.  The  letters  remained 
hidden  in  that  wall  until  Feversham  recovered  them. 
I  looked  over  them  and  saw  that  they  were  of  no 
value,  and  I  asked  Feversham  bluntly  why  he,  who 
had  not  dared  to  accompany  his  regiment  on  active 
service,  had  risked  death  and  torture  to  get  them  back." 


THE   STORT   OF   THE    FIRST  FEATHER      167 

Standing  upon  that  verandah,  with  the  quiet  pool 
of  water  in  front  of  him,  Feversham  had  told  his 
story  quietly  and  without  exaggeration.  He  had  re- 
lated how  he  had  fallen  in  with  Abou  Fatma  at  Sua- 
kin,  how  he  had  planned  the  recovery  of  the  letters, 
how  the  two  men  had  travelled  together  as  far  as 
Obak,  and  since  Abou  Fatma  dared  not  go  farther, 
how  he  himself,  driving  his  grey  donkey,  had  gone  on 
alone  to  Berber.  He  had  not  even  concealed  that 
access  of  panic  which  had  loosened  his  joints  when 
first  he  saw  the  low  brown  walls  of  the  town  and  the 
towering  date  palms  behind  on  the  bank  of  the  Nile ; 
which  had  set  him  running  and  leaping  across  the 
empty  desert  in  the  sunlight,  a  marrowless  thing  of 
fear.  He  made,  however,  one  omission.  He  said 
nothing  of  the  hours  which  he  had  spent  crouching 
upon  the  hot  sand,  with  his  coat  drawn  over  his  head, 
while  he  drew  a  woman's  face  toward  him  across  the 
continents  and  seas  and  nerved  himself  to  endure  by 
the  look  of  sorrow  which  it  wore. 

"  He  went  down  into  Berber  at  the  setting  of  the 
sun,"  said  Captain  Willoughby,  and  it  was  all  that  he 
had  to  say.  It  was  enough,  however,  for  Ethne 
Eustace.  She  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  her  face 
softened,  there  came  a  light  into  her  grey  eyes,  and 
a  smile  upon  her  lips. 

"  He  went  down  into  Berber,"  she  repeated  softly. 

"  And  found  that  the  old  town  had  been  destroyed 
by  the  orders  of  the  Emir,  and  that  a  new  one  was 
building  upon  its  southern  confines,"  continued  Wil- 
loughby. "  All  the  landmarks  by  which  Feversham 
was  to  know  the  house  in  which  the  letters  were  hid- 
den had  gone.      The  roofs  had  been  torn  off,  the 


1 68  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

houses  dismantled,  the  front  walls  carried  away. 
Narrow  alleys  of  crumbling  fives-courts  —  that  was 
how  Feversham  described  the  place  —  crossing  this 
way  and  that  and  gaping  to  the  stars.  Here  and 
there  perhaps  a  broken  tower  rose  up,  the  remnant 
of  a  rich  man's  house.  But  of  any  sign  which  could 
tell  a  man  where  the  hut  of  Yusef,  who  had  once  sold 
rock-salt  in  the  market-place,  had  stood,  there  was 
no  hope  in  those  acres  of  crumbling  mud.  The  foxes 
had  already  made  their  burrows  there." 

The  smile  faded  from  Ethne's  face,  but  she  looked 
again  at  the  white  feather  lying  in  her  palm,  and  she 
laughed  with  a  great  contentment.  It  was  yellow 
with  the  desert  dust.  It  was  a  proof  that  in  this 
story  there  was  to  be  no  word  of  failure. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 

Willoughby  related  the  despatch  of  the  negro  with 
the  donkey  to  Abou  Fatma  at  the  Wells  of  Obak. 

"  Feversham  stayed  for  a  fortnight  in  Berber," 
Willoughby  continued.  "  A  week  during  which  he 
came  every  morning  to  the  well  and  waited  for  the 
return  of  his  negro  from  Obak,  and  a  week  during 
which  that  negro  searched  for  Yusef,  who  had  once 
sold  rock-salt  in  the  market-place.  I  doubt,  Miss 
Eustace,  if  you  can  realise,  however  hard  you  try, 
what  that  fortnight  must  have  meant  to  Feversham 
—  the  anxiety,  the  danger,  the  continued  expectation 
that  a  voice  would  bid  him  halt  and  a  hand  fall  upon 
his  shoulder,  the  urgent  knowledge  that  if  the  hand 
fell,  death  would  be  the  least  part  of  his  penalty.  I 
imagine  the  town  —  a  town  of  low  houses  and  broad 
streets  of  sand,  dug  here  and  there  into  pits  for  mud 
wherewith  to  build  the   houses,    and   overhead    the 


THE   STORT   OF   THE    FIRST  FEATHER     169 

blistering  sun  and  a  hot    shadowless  sky.       In    no 
corner  was  there  any  darkness  or  concealment.     And 
all  day  a  crowd  jostled  and  shouted  up   and  down 
these  streets  —  for  that  is  the  Mahdist  policy  to  crowd 
the  towns  so  that  all  may  be  watched  and  every  other 
man  may  be  his  neighbour's  spy.    Feversham  dared  not 
seek  the  shelter  of  a  roof  at  night,  for  he  dared  not 
trust  his  tongue.     He  could  buy  his  food  each  day  at 
the  booths,  but  he  was  afraid  of  any  conversation. 
He  slept  at  night  in  some  corner  of  the  old  deserted 
town,  in  the  acres  of   the  ruined   fives-courts.     For 
the  same  reason  he  must  not  slink  in  the  by-ways  by 
day  lest  any  should  question  him  about  his  business  ; 
nor  listen  on  the  chance  of  hearing  Yusef's  name  in 
the  public  places  lest  other  loiterers  should  joke  with 
him  and  draw  him  into  their  talk.    Nor  dare  he  in  the 
daylight  prowl  about  those  crumbled  ruins.      From 
sunrise  to  sunset  he  must  go  quickly  up  and  down 
the  streets  of  the  town  like  a  man  bent  upon  urgent 
business  which  permits  of  no  delay.     And  that  con- 
tinued for  a  fortnight,  Miss  Eustace  !     A  weary,  try- 
ing life,  don't  you  think?      I  wish  I  could  tell  you 
of  it  as  vividly  as  he  told  me  that  night  upon  the 
balcony  of  the  palace  at  Suakin." 

Ethne  wished  it  too  with  all  her  heart.  Harry 
Feversham  had  made  his  story  very  real  that  night 
to  Captain  Willoughby ;  so  that  even  after  the  lapse 
of  fifteen  months  this  unimaginative  creature  was 
sensible  of  a  contrast  and  a  deficiency  in  his  manner 
of  narration. 

"  In  front  of  us  was  the  quiet  harbour  and  the  Red 
Sea,  above  us  the  African  stars.  Feversham  spoke 
in  the  quietest  manner  possible,  but  with  a  peculiar 


170 


THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 


deliberation  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  my  face,  as 
though  he  was  forcing  me  to  feel  with  him  and  to 
understand.  Even  when  he  lighted  his  cigar  he  did 
not  avert  his  eyes.  For  by  this  time  I  had  given  him 
a  cigar  and  offered  him  a  chair.  I  had  really,  I 
assure  you,  Miss  Eustace.  It  was  the  first  time  in 
four  years  that  he  had  sat  with  one  of  his  equals,  or 
indeed  with  any  of  his  countrymen  on  a  footing  of 
equality.  He  told  me  so.  I  wish  I  could  remem- 
ber all  that  he  told  me."  Willoughby  stopped  and 
cudgelled  his  brains  helplessly.  He  gave  up  the 
effort  in  the  end. 

"  Well,"  he  resumed,  "  after  Feversham  had  skulked 
for  a  fortnight  in  Berber,  the  negro  discovered  Yusef, 
no  longer  selling  salt,  but  tending  a  small  plantation 
of  dhurra  on  the  river's  edge.  From  Yusef,  Fever- 
sham  obtained  particulars  enough  to  guide  him  to  the 
house  where  the  letters  were  concealed  in  the  inner 
wall.  But  Yusef  was  no  longer  to  be  trusted.  Pos- 
sibly Feversham's  accent  betrayed  him.  The  more 
likely  conjecture  is  that  Yusef  took  Feversham  for  a 
spy,  and  thought  it  wise  to  be  beforehand  and  to  con- 
fess to  Mohammed-el-Kheir,  the  Emir,  his  own  share 
in  the  concealment  of  the  letters.  That,  however,  is 
a  mere  conjecture.  The  important  fact  is  this.  On 
the  same  night  Feversham  went  alone  to  old  Berber." 

"  Alone  !  "  said  Ethne.     "  Yes  ? " 

"  He  found  the  house  fronting  a  narrow  alley,  and 
the  sixth  of  the  row.  The  front  wall  was  destroyed, 
but  the  two  side  walls  and  the  back  wall  still  stood. 
Three  feet  from  the  floor  and  two  feet  from  the  right- 
hand  corner  the  letters  were  hidden  in  that  inner 
wall.     Feversham  dug  into  the  mud  bricks  with  his 


THE   STORT   OF   THE    FIRST  FEATHER     171 

knife ;  he  made  a  hole  wherein  he  could  slip  his 
hand.  The  wall  was  thick ;  he  dug  deep,  stopping 
now  and  again  to  feel  for  the  packet.  At  last  his 
fingers  clasped  and  drew  it  out ;  as  he  hid  it  in  a  fold 
of  his  jibbeh,  the  light  of  a  lantern  shone  upon  him 
from  behind." 

Ethne  started  as  though  she  had  been  trapped  her- 
self. Those  acres  of  roofless  fives-courts,  with  here 
and  there  a  tower  showing  up  against  the  sky,  the 
lonely  alleys,  the  dead  silence  here  beneath  the  stars, 
the  cries  and  the  beating  of  drums  and  the  glare  of 
lights  from  the  new  town,  Harry  Feversham  alone 
with  the  letters,  with,  in  a  word,  some  portion  of  his 
honour  redeemed,  and  finally,  the  lantern  flashing 
upon  him  in  that  solitary  place,  —  the  scene  itself  and 
the  progress  of  the  incidents  were  so  visible  to  Ethne 
at  that  moment  that  even  with  the  feather  in  her 
open  palm  she  could  hardly  bring  herself  to  believe 
that  Harry  Feversham  had  escaped. 

"Well,  well?"  she  asked. 

"  He  was  standing  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  the 
light  came  from  the  alley  behind  him.  He  did  not 
turn,  but  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  could  see  a 
fold  of  a  white  robe  hanging  motionless.  He  care- 
fully secured  the  package,  with  a  care  indeed  and  a 
composure  which  astonished  him  even  at  that  mo- 
ment. The  shock  had  strung  him  to  a  concentration 
and  lucidity  of  thought  unknown  to  him  till  then. 
His  fingers  were  trembling,  he  remarked,  as  he  tied 
the  knots,  but  it  was  with  excitement,  and  an  excite- 
ment which  did  not  flurry.  His  mind  worked  rapidly, 
but  quite  coolly,  quite  deliberately.  Fie  came  to  a 
perfectly  definite  conclusion  as  to  what  he  must  do. 


172  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Every  faculty  which  he  possessed  was  extraordinarily 
clear,  and  at  the  same  time  extraordinarily  still.  He 
had  his  knife  in  his  hand,  he  faced  about  suddenly 
and  ran.  There  were  two  men  waiting.  Feversham 
ran  at  the  man  who  held  the  lantern.  He  was  aware 
of  the  point  of  a  spear,  he  ducked  and  beat  it  aside 
with  his  left  arm,  he  leaped  forward  and  struck  with 
his  right.  The  Arab  fell  at  his  feet ;  the  lantern  was 
extinguished.  Feversham  sprang  across  the  white- 
robed  body  and  ran  eastward,  toward  the  open 
desert.  But  in  no  panic ;  he  had  never  been  so 
collected.  He  was  followed  by  the  second  soldier. 
He  had  foreseen  that  he  would  be  followed.  If 
he  was  to  escape,  it  was  indeed  necessary  that  he 
should  be.  He  turned  a  corner,  crouched  behind  a 
wall,  and  as  the  Arab  came  running  by  he  leaped 
out  upon  his  shoulders.  And  again  as  he  leaped  he 
struck." 

Captain  Willoughby  stopped  at  this  point  of  his 
story  and  turned  towards  Ethne.  He  had  something 
to  say  which  perplexed  and  at  the  same  time  im- 
pressed him,  and  he  spoke  with  a  desire  for  an  ex- 
planation. 

"The  strangest  feature  of  those  few  fierce,  short 
minutes,"  he  said,  "  was  that  Feversham  felt  no  fear. 
I  don't  understand  that,  do  you  ?  From  the  first 
moment  when  the  lantern  shone  upon  him  from 
behind,  to  the  last  when  he  turned  his  feet  east- 
ward, and  ran  through  the  ruined  alleys  and  broken 
walls  toward  the  desert  and  the  Wells  of  Obak,  he 
felt  no  fear." 

This  was  the  most  mysterious  part  of  Harry  Fever- 
sham's  story  to  Captain  Willoughby.     Here  was  a 


THE    STORT   OF   THE    FIRST  FEATHER     173 

man  who  so  shrank  from  the  possibilities  of  battle, 
that  he  must  actually  send  in  his  papers  rather  than 
confront  them ;  yet  when  he  stood  in  dire  and  imme- 
diate peril  he  felt  no  fear.  Captain  Willoughby  might 
well  turn  to  Ethne  for  an  explanation. 

There  had  been  no  mystery  in  it  to  Harry  Fever- 
sham,  but  a  great  bitterness  of  spirit.  He  had  sat  on 
the  verandah  at  Suakin,  whittling  away  at  the  edge  of 
Captain  Willoughby's  table  with  the  very  knife  which 
he  had  used  in  Berber  to  dig  out  the  letters,  and  which 
had  proved  so  handy  a  weapon  when  the  lantern  shone 
out  behind  him  —  the  one  glimmering  point  of  light  in 
that  vast  acreage  of  ruin.  Harry  Feversham  had  kept 
it  carefully  uncleansed  of  blood ;  he  had  treasured  it 
all  through  his  flight  across  the  two  hundred  and  forty 
odd  miles  of  desert  into  Suakin ;  it  was,  next  to  the . 
white  feathers,  the  thing  which  he  held  most  precious 
of  his  possessions,  and  not  merely  because  it  would 
serve  as  a  corroboration  of  his  story  to  Captain  Wil- 
loughby, but  because  the  weapon  enabled  him  to  be- 
lieve and  realise  it  himself.  A  brown  clotted  rust 
dulled  the  whole  length  of  the  blade,  and  often  dur- 
ing the  first  two  days  and  nights  of  his  flight,  when  he 
travelled  alone,  hiding  and  running  and  hiding  again, 
with  the  dread  of  pursuit  always  at  his  heels,  he  had 
taken  the  knife  from  his  breast,  and  stared  at  it  with 
incredulous  eyes,  and  clutched  it  close  to  him  like  a 
thing  of  comfort.  He  had  lost  his  way  amongst  the 
sandhills  of  Obak  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
and  had  wandered  vainly,  with  his  small  store  of 
dates  and  water  exhausted,  until  he  had  stumbled 
and  lay  prone,  parched  and  famished  and  enfeebled, 
with  the  bitter  knowledge  that  Abou  Fatma  and  the 


174  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

Wells  were  somewhere  within  a  mile  of  the  spot  on 
which  he  lay.  But  even  at  that  moment  of  exhaus- 
tion the  knife  had  been  a  talisman  and  a  help.  He 
grasped  the  rough  wooden  handle,  all  too  small  for 
a  Western  hand,  and  he  ran  his  fingers  over  the 
rough  rust  upon  the  blade,  and  the  weapon  spoke 
to  him  and  bade  him  take  heart,  since  once  he  had 
been  put  to  the  test  and  had  not  failed.  But  long 
before  he  saw  the  white  houses  of  Suakin  that  feeling 
of  elation  vanished,  and  the  knife  became  an  emblem 
of  the  vain  tortures  of  his  boyhood  and  the  miserable 
folly  which  culminated  in  his  resignation  of  his  com- 
mission. He  understood  now  the  words  which  Lieu- 
tenant Sutch  had  spoken  in  the  grill-room  of  the 
Criterion  Restaurant,  when  citing  Hamlet  as  his  ex- 
ample, "  The  thing  which  he  saw,  which  he  thought 
over,  which  he  imagined  in  the  act  and  in  the  conse- 
quence—  that  he  shrank  from.  Yet  when  the  mo- 
ment of  action  comes  sharp  and  immediate,  does  he 
fail  ? "  And  remembering  the  words,  Harry  Fever- 
sham  sat  one  May  night,  four  years  afterwards,  in 
Captain  Willoughby's  verandah,  whittling  away  at 
the  table  with  his  knife,  and  saying  over  and  over 
again  in  a  bitter  savage  voice :  "  It  was  an  illusion, 
but  an  illusion  which  has  caused  a  great  deal  of 
suffering  to  a  woman  I  would  have  shielded  from 
suffering.  But  I  am  well  paid  for  it,  for  it  has 
wrecked  my  life  besides." 

Captain  Willoughby  could  not  understand,  any 
more  than  General  Feversham  could  have  understood, 
or  than  Ethne  had.  But  Willoughby  could  at  all 
events  remember  and  repeat,  and  Ethne  had  grown 
by  five  years  of  unhappiness  since  the  night  when 


THE    STORT   OF    THE   FIRST  FEATHER     175 

Harry  Feversham,  in  the  little  room  off  the  hall  at 
Lennon  House,  had  told  her  of  his  upbringing,  of  the 
loss  of  his  mother,  and  the  impassable  gulf  between 
his  father  and  himself,  and  of  the  fear  of  disgrace 
which  had  haunted  his  nights  and  disfigured  the 
world  for  him  by  day. 

"  Yes,  it  was  an  illusion,"  she  cried.  "  I  understand. 
I  might  have  understood  a  long  while  since,  but  I 
would  not.  When  those  feathers  came  he  told  me 
why  they  were  sent,  quite  simply,  with  his  eyes  on 
mine.  When  my  father  knew  of  them,  he  waited 
quite  steadily  and  faced  my  father." 

There  was  other  evidence  of  the  like  kind  not 
within  Ethne's  knowledge.  Harry  Feversham  had 
journeyed  down  to  Broad  Place  in  Surrey  and  made 
his  confession  no  less  unflinchingly  to  the  old  general. 
But  Ethne  knew  enough.  "  It  was  the  possibility  of 
cowardice  from  which  he  shrank,  not  the  possibility 
of  hurt,"  she  exclaimed.  "  If  only  one  had  been  a 
little  older,  a  little  less  sure  about  things,  a  little 
less  narrow !  I  should  have  listened.  I  should  have 
understood.  At  all  events,  I  should  not,  I  think, 
have  been  cruel." 

Not  for  the  first  time  did  remorse  for  that  fourth 
feather  which  she  had  added  to  the  three,  seize  upon 
her.  She  sat  now  crushed  by  it  into  silence.  Captain 
Willoughby,  however,  was  a  stubborn  man,  unwilling 
upon  any  occasion  to  admit  an  error.  He  saw  that 
Ethne's  remorse  by  implication  condemned  himself, 
and  that  he  was  not  prepared  to  suffer. 

"Yes,  but  these  fine  distinctions  are  a  little  too 
elusive  for  practical  purposes,"  he  said.  "You  can't 
run  the  world  on  fine  distinctions ;  so  I  cannot  bring 


176  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

myself  to  believe  that  we  three  men  were  at  all  to 
blame,  and  if  we  were  not,  you  of  all  people  can  have 
no  reason  for  self-reproach." 

Ethne  did  not  consider  what  he  precisely  meant  by 
the  last  reference  to  herself.  For  as  he  leaned  com- 
placently back  in  his  seat,  anger  against  him  flamed 
suddenly  hot  in  her.  Occupied  by  his  story,  she  had 
ceased  to  take  stock  of  the  story-teller.  Now  that  he 
had  ended,  she  looked  him  over  from  head  to  foot. 
An  obstinate  stupidity  was  the  mark  of  the  man  to 
her  eye.  How  dare  he  sit  in  judgment  upon  the 
meanest  of  his  fellows,  let  alone  Harry  Feversham  ? 
she  asked,  and  in  the  same  moment  recollected  that 
she  herself  had  endorsed  his  judgment.  Shame 
tingled  through  all  her  blood  ;  she  sat  with  her  lips  set, 
keeping  Willoughby  under  watch  from  the  corners  of 
her  eyes,  and  waiting  to  pounce  savagely  the  moment 
he  opened  his  lips.  There  had  been  noticeable 
throughout  his  narrative  a  manner  of  condescension 
towards  Feversham.  "  Let  him  use  it  again ! " 
thought  Ethne.  But  Captain  Willoughby  said  noth- 
ing at  all,  and  Ethne  herself  broke  the  silence.  "Who 
of  you  three  first  thought  of  sending  the  feathers?" 
she  asked  aggressively.     "  Not  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  think  it  was  Trench,"  he  replied. 

"Ah,  Trench  !  "  Ethne  exclaimed.  She  struck  one 
clenched  hand,  the  hand  which  held  the  feather, 
viciously  into  the  palm  of  the  other.  "  I  will  remem- 
ber that  name." 

"  But  I  share  his  responsibility,"  Willoughby  as- 
sured her.  "  I  do  not  shrink  from  it  at  all.  I  regret 
very  much  that  we  caused  you  pain  and  annoyance, 
but  I   do  not  acknowledge  to  any  mistake  in   this 


THE    STORT   OF   THE    FIRST  FEATHER     177 

matter.  I  take  my  feather  back  now,  and  I  annul  my 
accusation.      But  that  is  your  doing." 

"  Mine  ?  "  asked  Ethne.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Captain  Willoughby  turned  with  surprise  to  his 
companion. 

"  A  man  may  live  in  the  Soudan  and  even  yet  not 
be  wholly  ignorant  of  women  and  their  great  quality 
of  forgiveness.  You  gave  the  feathers  back  to  Fever- 
sham  in  order  that  he  might  redeem  his  honour. 
That  is  evident." 

Ethne  sprang  to  her  feet  before  Captain  Willoughby 
had  come  to  the  end  of  his  sentence,  and  stood  a  little 
in  front  of  him,  with  her  face  averted,  and  in  an 
attitude  remarkably  still.  Willoughby  in  his  igno- 
rance, like  many  another  stupid  man  before  him,  had 
struck  with  a  shrewdness  and  a  vigour  which  he  could 
never  have  compassed  by  the  use  of  his  wits.  He 
had  pointed  out  abruptly  and  suddenly  to  Ethne  a 
way  which  she  might  have  taken  and  had  not,  and 
her  remorse  warned  her  very  clearly  that  it  was  the 
way  which  she  ought  to  have  taken.  But  she  could 
rise  to  the  heights.  She  did  not  seek  to  justify  her- 
self in  her  own  eyes,  nor  would  she  allow  Willoughby 
to  continue  in  his  misconception.  She  recognised 
that  here  she  had  failed  in  charity  and  justice,  and 
she  was  glad  that  she  had  failed,  since  her  failure  had 
been  the  opportunity  of  greatness  to  Harry  Fever- 
sham. 

"  Will  you  repeat  what  you  said  ?  "  she  asked  in  a 
low  voice;  "and  ever  so  slowly,  please." 

"  You  gave  the  feathers  back  into  Feversham's 
hand  —  " 

"  He  told  you  that  himself  ? " 


178  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  Yes  ;  "  and  Willoughby  resumed,  "  in  order  that 
he  might  by  his  subsequent  bravery  compel  the  men 
who  sent  them  to  take  them  back,  and  so  redeem  his 
honour." 

"  He  did  not  tell  you  that  ?  " 

"  No.  I  guessed  it.  You  see,  Feversham's  dis- 
grace was,  on  the  face  of  it,  impossible  to  retrieve. 
The  opportunity  might  never  have  occurred  —  it  was 
not  likely  to  occur.  As  things  happened,  Fever- 
sham  still  waited  for  three  years  in  the  bazaar  at 
Suakin  before  it  did.  No,  Miss  Eustace,  it  needed 
a  woman's  faith  to  conceive  that  plan  —  a  woman's 
encouragement  to  keep  the  man  who  undertook  it  to 
his  work." 

Ethne  laughed  and  turned  back  to  him.  Her  face 
was  tender  with  pride,  and  more  than  tender.  Pride 
seemed  in  some  strange  way  to  hallow  her,  to  give 
an  unimagined  benignance  to  her  eyes,  an  unearthly 
brightness  to  the  smile  upon  her  lips  and  the  colour 
upon  her  cheeks.  So  that  Willoughby,  looking  at  her, 
was  carried  out  of  himself. 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  "you  were  the  woman  to  plan 
this  redemption." 

Ethne  laughed  again,  and  very  happily. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  of  a  fourth  white  feather  ? "  she 
asked. 

"No." 

"  I  shall  tell  you  the  truth,"  she  said,  as  she  re- 
sumed her  seat.  "The  plan  was  of  his  devising 
from  first  to  last.  Nor  did  I  encourage  him  to  its 
execution.  For  until  to-day  I  never  heard  a  word  of 
it.  Since  the  night  of  that  dance  in  Donegal  I  have 
had  no  message  from  Mr.  Feversham,  and  no  news 


THE    STORT   OF    THE    FIRS11   FEATHER     179 

of  him.  I  told  him  to  take  up  those  three  feathers 
because  they  were  his,  and  I  wished  to  show  him 
that  I  agreed  with  the  accusations  of  which  they 
were  the  symbols.  That  seems  cruel  ?  But  I  did 
more.  I  snapped  a  fourth  white  feather  from  my 
fan  and  gave  him  that  to  carry  away  too.  It  is  only 
fair  that  you  should  know.  I  wanted  to  make  an 
end  for  ever  and  ever,  not  only  of  my  acquaintance- 
ship with  him,  but  of  every  kindly  thought  he  might 
keep  of  me,  of  every  kindly  thought  I  might  keep  of 
him.  I  wanted  to  be  sure  myself,  and  I  wanted  him 
to  be  sure,  that  we  should  always  be  strangers  now 
and  —  and  afterwards,"  and  the  last  words  she  spoke 
in  a  whisper.  Captain  Willoughby  did  not  under- 
stand what  she  meant  by  them.  It  is  possible  that 
only  Lieutenant  Sutch  and  Harry  Feversham  him- 
self would  have  understood. 

"  I  was  sad  and  sorry  enough  when  I  had  done  it," 
she  resumed.  "  Indeed,  indeed,  I  think  I  have 
always  been  sorry  since.  I  think  that  I  have  never 
at  any  minute  during  these  five  years  quite  forgotten 
that  fourth  white  feather  and  the  quiet  air  of  dignity 
with  which  he  took  it.  But  to-day  I  am  glad."  And 
her  voice,  though  low,  rang  rich  with  the  fulness  of 
her  pride.  "  Oh,  very  glad  !  For  this  was  his  thought, 
his  deed.  They  are  both  all  his,  as  I  would  have  them 
be.  I  had  no  share,  and  of  that  I  am  very  proud. 
He  needed  no  woman's  faith,  no  woman's  encour- 
agement." 

"Yet  he  sent  this  back  to  you,"  said  Willoughby, 
pointing  in  some  perplexity  to  the  feather  which 
Ethne  held. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "yes.     He  knew  that  I  should  be 


180  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

glad  to  know."  And  suddenly  she  held  it  close  to 
her  breast.  Thus  she  sat  for  a  while  with  her  eyes 
shining,  until  Willoughby  rose  to  his  feet  and  pointed 
to  the  gap  in  the  hedge  by  which  they  had  entered 
the  enclosure. 

"By  Jove!  Jack  Durrance,"  he  exclaimed. 

Durrance  was  standing  in  the  gap,  which  was  the 
only  means  of  entering  or  going  out. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

CAPTAIN   WILLOUGHBY   RETIRES 

Ethne  had  entirely  forgotten  even  Colonel  Dur- 
rance's  existence.  From  the  moment  when  Captain 
Willoughby  had  put  that  little  soiled  feather  which 
had  once  been  white,  and  was  now  yellow,  into  her 
hand,  she  had  had  no  thought  for  any  one  but  Harry 
Feversham.  She  had  carried  Willoughby  into  that 
enclosure,  and  his  story  had  absorbed  her  and  kept 
her  memory  on  the  rack,  as  she  filled  out  with  this 
or  that  recollected  detail  of  Harry's  gestures,  or 
voice,  or  looks,  the  deficiencies  in  her  companion's 
narrative.  She  had  been  swept  away  from  that 
August  garden  of  sunlight  and  coloured  flowers ;  and 
those  five  most  weary  years,  during  which  she  had 
held  her  head  high  and  greeted  the  world  with  a 
smile  of  courage,  were  blotted  from  her  experience. 
How  weary  they  had  been  perhaps  she  never  knew, 
until  she  raised  her  head  and  saw  Durrance  at  the 
entrance  in  the  hedge. 

"  Hush !  "  she  said  to  Willoughby,  and  her  face 
paled  and  her  eyes  shut  tight  for  a  moment  with  a 
spasm  of  pain.  But  she  had  no  time  to  spare  for  any 
indulgence  of  her  feelings.  Her  few  minutes'  talk 
with  Captain  Willoughby  had  been  a  holiday,  but  the 
holiday  was  over.  She  must  take  up  again  the  re- 
sponsibilities with  which  those  five  years  had  charged 

181 


1 82  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

her,  and  at  once.  If  she  could  not  accomplish  that 
hard  task  of  forgetting  —  and  she  now  knew  very  well 
that  she  never  would  accomplish  it  —  she  must  do  the 
next  best  thing,  and  give  no  sign  that  she  had  not 
forgotten.  Durrance  must  continue  to  believe  that 
she  brought  more  than  friendship  into  the  marriage 
account. 

He  stood  at  the  very  entrance  to  the  enclosure ;  he 
advanced  into  it.  He  was  so  quick  to  guess,  it  was 
not  wise  that  he  should  meet  Captain  Willoughby  or 
even  know  of  his  coming.  Ethne  looked  about  her 
for  an  escape,  knowing  very  well  that  she  would  look 
in  vain.  The  creek  was  in  front  of  them,  and  three 
walls  of  high  thick  hedge  girt  them  in  behind  and  at 
the  sides.  There  was  but  one  entrance  to  this  en- 
closure, and  Durrance  himself  barred  the  path  to  it. 

"Keep  still,"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  "You  know 
him  ? " 

"  Of  course.  We  were  together  for  three  years  at 
Suakin.  I  heard  that  he  had  gone  blind.  I  am  glad 
to  know  that  it  is  not  true."  This  he  said,  noticing 
the  freedom  of  Durrance's  gait. 

"  Speak  lower,"  returned  Ethne.  "  It  is  true.  He 
is  blind." 

"  One  would  never  have  thought  it.  Consolations 
seem  so  futile.     What  can  I  say  to  him?" 

"  Say  nothing  !  " 

Durrance  was  still  standing  just  within  the  enclos- 
ure, and,  as  it  seemed,  looking  straight  towards  the 
two  people  seated  on  the  bench. 

"  Ethne,"  he  said,  rather  than  called  ;  and  the  quiet 
unquestioning  voice  made  the  illusion  that  he  saw 
extraordinarily  complete. 


CAPTAIN   WILLOUGHBT  RETIRES  183 

"  It's  impossible  that  he  is  blind,"  said  Willoughby. 
"  He  sees  us." 

"  He  sees  nothing." 

Again  Durrance  called  "  Ethne,"  but  now  in  a 
louder  voice,  and  a  voice  of  doubt. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  He  is  not  sure,"  whispered  Ethne. 
"  Keep  very  still." 

"Why?" 

"  He  must  not  know  you  are  here,"  and  lest  Wil- 
loughby should  move,  she  caught  his  arm  tight  in  her 
hand.  Willoughby  did  not  pursue  his  inquiries. 
Ethne's  manner  constrained  him  to  silence.  She  sat 
very  still,  still  as  she  wished  him  to  sit,  and  in  a  queer 
huddled  attitude;  she  was  even  holding  her  breath; 
she  was  staring  at  Durrance  with  a  great  fear  in  her 
eyes  ;  her  face  was  strained  forward,  and  not  a  mus- 
cle of  it  moved,  so  that  Willoughby,  as  he  looked  at 
her,  was  conscious  of  a  certain  excitement,  which 
grew  on  him  for  no  reason  but  her  remarkable  ap- 
prehension. He  began  unaccountably  himself  to  fear 
lest  he  and  she  should  be  discovered. 

"  He  is  coming  towards  us,"  he  whispered. 

"  Not  a  word,  not  a  movement." 

"  Ethne,"  Durrance  cried  again.  He  advanced 
farther  into  the  enclosure  and  towards  the  seat. 
Ethne  and  Captain  Willoughby  sat  rigid,  watching 
him  with  their  eyes.  He  passed  in  front  of  the 
bench,  and  stopped  actually  facing  them.  Surely, 
thought  Willoughby,  he  sees.  His  eyes  were  upon 
them  ;  he  stood  easily,  as  though  he  were  about  to 
speak.  Even  Ethne,  though  she  very  well  knew  that 
he  did  not  see,  began  to  doubt  her  knowledge. 

"  Ethne  !  "  he  said  again,  and  this  time  in  the  quiet 


1 84  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

voice  which  he  had  first  used.  But  since  again  no 
answer  came,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned 
towards  the  creek.  His  back  was  towards  them  now, 
but  Ethne's  experience  had  taught  her  to  appreciate 
almost  indefinable  signs  in  his  bearing,  since  nowa- 
days his  face  showed  her  so  little.  Something  in  his 
attitude,  in  the  poise  of  his  head,  even  in  the  careless- 
ness with  which  he  swung  his  stick,  told  her  that  he  was 
listening,  and  listening  with  all  his  might.  Her  grasp 
tightened  on  Willoughby's  arm.  Thus  they  remained 
for  the  space  of  a  minute,  and  then  Durrance  turned 
suddenly  and  took  a  quick  step  towards  the  seat. 
Ethne,  however,  by  this  time  knew  the  man  and  his 
ingenuities;  she  was  prepared  for  some  such  unex- 
pected movement.  She  did  not  stir,  there  was  not 
audible  the  merest  rustle  of  her  skirt,  and  her  grip 
still  constrained  Willoughby. 

"  I  wonder  where  in  the  world  she  can  be,"  said 
Durrance  to  himself  aloud,  and  he  walked  back  and 
out  of  the  enclosure.  Ethne  did  not  free  Captain 
Willoughby's  arm  until  Durrance  had  disappeared 
from  sight. 

"  That  was  a  close  shave,"  Willoughby  said,  when 
at  last  he  was  allowed  to  speak.  "  Suppose  that 
Durrance  had  sat  down  on  the  top  of  us  ?" 

"  Why  suppose,  since  he  did  not  ? "  Ethne  asked 
calmly.     "  You  have  told  me  everything  ?  " 

"  So  far  as  I  remember." 

"  And  all  that  you  have  told  me  happened  in  the 
spring  ? " 

"The  spring  of  last  year,"  said  Willoughby. 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question.  Why  did 
you  not  bring  this  feather  to  me  last  summer  ? " 


CAPTAIN   WILLOUGHBT  RETIRES  185 

"  Last  year  my  leave  was  short.  I  spent  it  in  the 
hills  north  of  Suakin  after  ibex." 

"  I  see,"  said  Ethne,  quietly  ;  "  I  hope  you  had  good 
sport." 

"  It  wasn't  bad." 

Last  summer  Ethne  had  been  free.  If  Willoughby 
had  come  home  with  his  good  news  instead  of  shoot- 
ing ibex  on  Jebel  Araft,  it  would  have  made  all  the 
difference  in  her  life,  and  the  cry  was  loud  at  her 
heart,  "Why  didn't  you  come  ?  "  But  outwardly  she 
gave  no  sign  of  the  irreparable  harm  which  Willough- 
by's  delay  had  brought  about.  She  had  the  self- 
command  of  a  woman  who  has  been  sorely  tried,  and 
she  spoke  so  unconcernedly  that  Willoughby  believed 
her  questions  prompted  by  the  merest  curiosity. 

"  You  might  have  written,"  she  suggested. 

"Feversham  did  not  suggest  that  there  was  any 
hurry.  It  would  have  been  a  long  and  difficult  mat- 
ter to  explain  in  a  letter.  He  asked  me  to  go  to  you 
when  I  had  an  opportunity,  and  I  had  no  opportunity 
before.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  thought  it  very  likely 
that  I  might  find  Feversham  had  come  back  before 
me." 

"Oh,  no,"  returned  Ethne,  "there  could  be  no  pos- 
sibility of  that.  The  other  two  feathers  still  remain 
to  be  redeemed  before  he  will  ask  me  to  take  back 
mine." 

Willoughby  shook  his  head.  "  Feversham  can 
never  persuade  Castleton  and  Trench  to  cancel  their 
accusations  as  he  persuaded  me." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Major  Castleton  was  killed  when  the  square  was 
broken  at  Tamai." 


u/ 


1 86  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  Killed  ?  "  cried  Ethne,  and  she  laughed  in  a  short 
and  satisfied  way.  Willoughby  turned  and  stared  at 
her,  disbelieving  the  evidence  of  his  ears.  But  her 
face  showed  him  quite  clearly  that  she  was  thoroughly 
pleased.  Ethne  was  a  Celt,  and  she  had  the  Celtic 
feeling  that  death  was  not  a  very  important  matter. 
She  could  hate,  too,  and  she  could  be  hard  as  iron  to 
the  men  she  hated.  And  these  three  men  she  hated 
exceedingly.  It  was  true  that  she  had  agreed  with 
them,  that  she  had  given  a  feather,  the  fourth  feather, 
to  Harry  Feversham  just  to  show  that  she  agreed, 
but  she  did  not  trouble  her  head  about  that.  She 
was  very  glad  to  hear  that  Major  Castleton  was  out 
of  the  world  and  done  with. 

"  And  Colonel  Trench  too  ? "  she  said. 

"  No,"  Willoughby  answered.  "  You  are  disap- 
pointed ?  But  he  is  even  worse  off  than  that.  He 
was  captured  when  engaged  on  a  reconnaissance. 
He  is  now  a  prisoner  in  Omdurman." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Ethne. 

"I  don't  think  you  can  have  any  idea,"  said  Wil- 
loughby, severely,  "  of  what  captivity  in  Omdurman 
implies.  If  you  had,  however  much  you  disliked  the 
captive,  you  would  feel  some  pity." 

"  Not  I,"  said  Ethne,  stubbornly. 

"  I  will  tell  you  something  of  what  it  does  imply." 

"  No.  I  don't  wish  to  hear  of  Colonel  Trench. 
Besides,  you  must  go.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  one 
thing  first,"  said  she,  as  she  rose  from  her  seat. 
"  What  became  of  Mr.  Feversham  after  he  had  given 
you  that  feather  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  that  he  had  done  everything  which 
could  be  reasonably  expected ;  and  he  accepted  my 


CAPTAIN   WILLOUGHBY  RETIRES  187 

advice.  For  he  went  on  board  the  first  steamer 
which  touched  at  Suakin  on  its  way  to  Suez  and  so 
left  the  Soudan." 

"  I  must  find  out  where  he  is.  He  must  come 
back.     Did  he  need  money  ? " 

"  No.  He  still  drew  his  allowance  from  his  father. 
He  told  me  that  he  had  more  than  enough." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Ethne,  and  she  bade 
Willoughby  wait  within  the  enclosure  until  she  re- 
turned, and  went  out  by  herself  to  see  that  the  way 
was  clear.  The  garden  was  quite  empty.  Durrance 
had  disappeared  from  it,  and  the  great  stone  terrace 
of  the  house  and  the  house  itself,  with  its  striped 
sunblinds,  looked  a  place  of  sleep.  It  was  getting 
towards  one  o'clock,  and  the  very  birds  were  quiet 
amongst  the  trees.  Indeed  the  quietude  of  the  gar- 
den struck  upon  Ethne's  senses  as  something  almost 
strange.  Only  the  bees  hummed  drowsily  about  the 
flowerbeds,  and  the  voice  of  a  lad  was  heard  calling 
from  the  slopes  of  meadow  on  the  far  side  of  the 
creek.     She  returned  to  Captain  Willoughby. 

"You  can  go  now,"  she  said.  "I  cannot  pretend 
friendship  for  you,  Captain  Willoughby,  but  it  was 
kind  of  you  to  find  me  out  and  tell  me  your  story. 
You  are  going  back  at  once  to  Kingsbridge  ?  I  hope 
so.  For  I  do  not  wish  Colonel  Durrance  to  know  of 
your  visit  or  anything  of  what  you  have  told  me." 

"  Durrance  was  a  friend  of  Feversham's  —  his  great 
friend,"  Willoughby  objected. 

"  He  is  quite  unaware  that  any  feathers  were  sent 
to  Mr.  Feversham,  so  there  is  no  need  he  should  be 
informed  that  one  of  them  has  been  taken  back," 
Ethne  answered.     "  He  does  not  know  why  my  en- 


1 88  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

gagement  to  Mr.  Feversham  was  broken  off.  I  do 
not  wish  him  to  know.  Your  story  would  enlighten 
him,  and  he  must  not  be  enlightened." 

"  Why?  "  asked  Willoughby.  He  was  obstinate  by 
nature,  and  he  meant  to  have  the  reason  for  silence 
before  he  promised  to  keep  it.  Ethne  gave  it  to  him 
at  once  very  simply. 

"  I  am  engaged  to  Colonel  Durrance,"  she  said. 
It  was  her  fear  that  Durrance  already  suspected  that 
no  stronger  feeling  than  friendship  attached  her  to 
him.  If  once  he  heard  that  the  fault  which  broke 
her  engagement  to  Harry  Feversham  had  been  most 
bravely  atoned,  there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  the 
course  which  he  would  insist  upon  pursuing.  He 
would  strip  himself  of  her,  the  one  thing  left  to  him, 
and  that  she  was  stubbornly  determined  he  should 
not  do.  She  was  bound  to  him  in  honour,  and  it 
would  be  a  poor  way  of  manifesting  her  joy  that 
Harry  Feversham  had  redeemed  his  honour  if  she 
straightway  sacrificed  her  own. 

Captain  Willoughby  pursed  up  his  lips  and  whis- 
tled. 

"  Engaged  to  Jack  Durrance ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"Then  I  seem  to  have  wasted  my  time  in  bringing 
you  that  feather,"  and  he  pointed  towards  it.  She 
was  holding  it  in  her  open  hand,  and  she  drew  her 
hand  sharply  away,  as  though  she  feared  for  a 
moment  that  he  meant  to  rob  her  of  it. 

"  I  am  most  grateful  for  it,"  she  returned. 

"  It's  a  bit  of  a  muddle,  isn't  it  ? "  Willoughby  re- 
marked. "  It  seems  a  little  rough  on  Feversham 
perhaps.  It's  a  little  rough  on  Jack  Durrance, 
too,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it."     Then  he  looked 


CAPTAIN   WILLOUGHBT  RETIRES  189 

at  Ethne.  He  noticed  her  careful  handling  of  the 
feather ;  he  remembered  something  of  the  glowing 
look  with  which  she  had  listened  to  his  story,  some- 
thing of  the  eager  tones  in  which  she  had  put  her 
questions ;  and  he  added,  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it 
was  rather  rough  on  you  too,  Miss  Eustace." 

Ethne  did  not  answer  him,  and  they  walked  to- 
gether out  of  the  enclosure  towards  the  spot  where 
Willoughby  had  moored  his  boat.  She  hurried  him 
down  the  bank  to  the  water's  edge,  intent  that  he 
should  sail  away  unperceived. 

But  Ethne  had  counted  without  Mrs.  Adair,  who 
all  that  morning  had  seen  much  in  Ethne's  move- 
ments to  interest  her.  From  the  drawing-room  win- 
dow she  had  watched  Ethne  and  Durrance  meet  at 
the  foot  of  the  terrace-steps,  she  had  seen  them  walk 
together  towards  the  estuary,  she  had  noticed  Wil- 
loughby's  boat  as  it  ran  aground  in  the  wide  gap 
between  the  trees,  she  had  seen  a  man  disembark, 
and  Ethne  go  forward  to  meet  him.  Mrs.  Adair  was 
not  the  woman  to  leave  her  post  of  observation  at 
such  a  moment,  and  from  the  cover  of  the  curtains 
she  continued  to  watch  with  all  the  curiosity  of  a 
woman  in  a  village  who  draws  down  the  blind,  that 
unobserved  she  may  get  a  better  peep  at  the  stranger 
passing  down  the  street.  Ethne  and  the  man  from 
the  boat  turned  away  and  disappeared  amongst  the 
trees,  leaving  Durrance  forgotten  and  alone.  Mrs. 
Adair  thought  at  once  of  that  enclosure  at  the  water's 
edge.  The  conversation  lasted  for  some  while,  and 
since  the  couple  did  not  promptly  reappear,  a  ques- 
tion flashed  into  her  mind.  "  Could  the  stranger  be 
Harry  Feversham  ? "     Ethne  had  no  friends  in  this 


190  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

part  of  the  world.  The  question  pressed  upon  Mrs. 
Adair.  She  longed  for  an  answer,  and  of  course  for 
that  particular  answer  which  would  convict  Ethne 
Eustace  of  duplicity.  Her  interest  grew  into  an  ex- 
citement when  she  saw  Durrance,  tired  of  waiting, 
follow  upon  Ethne's  steps.  But  what  came  after 
was  to  interest  her  still  more. 

Durrance  reappeared,  to  her  surprise  alone,  and 
came  straight  to  the  house,  up  the  terrace,  into  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Have  you  seen  Ethne  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Is  she  not  in  the  little  garden  by  the  water  ? " 
Mrs.  Adair  asked. 

"No.    I  went  into  it  and  called  to  her.    It  was  empty." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Adair.  "  Then  I  don't  know 
where  she  is.     Are  you  going  ?  " 

"Yes,  home." 

Mrs.  Adair  made  no  effort  to  detain  him  at  that 
moment. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  come  in  and  dine  to-night. 
Eight  o'clock." 

"  Thanks,  very  much.  I  shall  be  pleased,"  said  Dur- 
rance, but  he  did  not  immediately  go.  He  stood  by  the 
window  idly  swinging  to  and  fro  the  tassel  of  the  blind. 

"  I  did  not  know  until  to-day  that  it  was  your  plan 
that  I  should  come  home  and  Ethne  stay  with  you 
until  I  found  out  whether  a  cure  was  likely  or  pos- 
sible. It  was  very  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Adair,  and  I 
am  grateful." 

"  It  was  a  natural  plan  to  propose  as  soon  as  I 
heard  of  your  ill-luck." 

"And  when  was  that?"  he  asked  unconcernedly. 
"The  day  after  Calder's  telegram  reached  her  from 
Wadi  Haifa,  I  suppose." 


CAPTAIN    WILLOUGHBT  RETIRES         191 

Mrs.  Adair  was  not  deceived  by  his  attitude  of 
carelessness.  She  realised  that  his  expression  of 
gratitude  had  deliberately  led  up  to  this  question. 

"  Oh,  so  you  knew  of  that  telegram,"  she  said.  "  I 
thought  you  did  not."  For  Ethne  had  asked  her  not 
to  mention  it  on  the  very  day  when  Durrance  re- 
turned to  England. 

"  Of  course  I  knew  of  it,"  he  returned,  and  with- 
out waiting  any  longer  for  an  answer  he  went  out  on 
to  the  terrace. 

Mrs.  Adair  dismissed  for  the  moment  the  mystery 
of  the  telegram.  She  was  occupied  by  her  conjec- 
ture that  in  the  little  garden  by  the  water's  edge 
Durrance  had  stood  and  called  aloud  for  Ethne,  while 
within  twelve  yards  of  him,  perhaps  actually  within 
his  reach,  she  and  some  one  else  had  kept  very  still 
and  had  given  no  answer.  Her  conjecture  was  soon 
proved  true.  She  saw  Ethne  and  her  companion 
come  out  again  on  to  the  open  lawn.  Was  it  Fever- 
sham  ?  She  must  have  an  answer  to  that  question. 
She  saw  them  descend  the  bank  towards  the  boat, 
and,  stepping  from  her  window,  ran. 

Thus  it  happened  that  as  Willoughby  rose  from 
loosening  the  painter,  he  saw  Mrs.  Adair's  disap- 
pointed eyes  gazing  into  his.  Mrs.  Adair  called  to 
Ethne,  who  stood  by  Captain  Willoughby,  and  came 
down  the  bank  to  them. 

"  I  noticed  you  cross  the  lawn  from  the  drawing- 
room  window,"  she  said. 

"  Yes  ? "  answered  Ethne,  and  she  said  no  more. 
Mrs.  Adair,  however,  did  not  move  away,  and  an  awk- 
ward pause  followed.     Ethne  was  forced  to  give  in. 

"  I  was  talking  to  Captain  Willoughby,"  and  she 


1 9z  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

turned  to  him.  "  You  do  not  know  Mrs.  Adair,  I 
think  ? " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  as  he  raised  his  hat.  "  But  I 
know  Mrs.  Adair  very  well  by  name.  I  know  friends 
of  yours,  Mrs.  Adair  —  Durrance,  for  instance;  and 
of  course  I  knew  —  " 

A  glance  from  Ethne  brought  him  abruptly  to  a 
stop.  He  began  vigorously  to  push  the  nose  of  his 
boat  from  the  sand. 

"  Of  course,  what  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Adair,  with  a 
smile. 

"  Of  course  I  knew  of  you,  Mrs.  Adair." 

Mrs.  Adair  was  quite  clear  that  this  was  not  what 
Willoughby  had  been  on  the  point  of  saying  when 
Ethne  turned  her  eyes  quietly  upon  him  and  cut  him 
short.  He  was  on  the  point  of  adding  another  name. 
"Captain  Willoughby,"  she  repeated  to  herself. 
Then  she  said  :  — 

"  You  belong  to  Colonel  Durrance's  regiment,  per- 
haps ? " 

"  No,  I  belong  to  the  North  Surrey,"  he  answered. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Feversham's  old  regiment,"  said  Mrs. 
Adair,  pleasantly.  Captain  Willoughby  had  fallen 
into  her  little  trap  with  a  guilelessness  which  provoked 
in  her  a  desire  for  a  closer  acquaintanceship.  What- 
ever Willoughby  knew  it  would  be  easy  to  extract. 
Ethne,  however,  had  disconcerting  ways  which  at 
times  left  Mrs.  Adair  at  a  loss.  She  looked  now 
straight  into  Mrs.  Adair's  eyes  and  said  calmly:  — 

"  Captain  Willoughby  and  I  have  been  talking  of 
Mr.  Feversham."  At  the  same  time  she  held  out 
her  hand  to  the  captain.     "  Good-bye,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Adair  hastily  interrupted. 


CAPTAIN    WILLOUGHBY  RETIRES         193 

"Colonel  Durrance  has  gone  home,  but  he  dines 
with  us  to-night.  I  came  out  to  tell  you  that,  but  I 
am  glad  that  I  came,  for  it  gives  me  the  opportunity 
to  ask  your  friend  to  lunch  with  us  if  he  will." 

Captain  Willoughby,  who  already  had  one  leg  over 
the  bows  of  his  boat,  withdrew  it  with  alacrity. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Adair,"  he  began. 

"It  is  very  kind  indeed,"  Ethne  continued,  "but 
Captain  Willoughby  has  reminded  me  that  his  leave 
is  very  short,  and  we  have  no  right  to  detain  him. 
Good-bye." 

Captain  Willoughby  gazed  with  a  vain  appeal  upon 
Miss  Eustace.  He  had  travelled  all  night  from  Lon- 
don, he  had  made  the  scantiest  breakfast  at  Kings- 
bridge,  and  the  notion  of  lunch  appealed  to  him 
particularly  at  that  moment.  But  her  eyes  rested  on 
his  with  a  quiet  and  inexorable  command.  He  bowed, 
got  ruefully  into  his  boat,  and  pushed  off  from  the 
shore. 

"  It's  a  little  bit  rough  on  me  too,  perhaps,  Miss 
Eustace,"  he  said.  Ethne  laughed,  and  returned  to 
the  terrace  with  Mrs.  Adair.  Once  or  twice  she 
opened  the  palm  of  her  hand  and  disclosed  to  her 
companion's  view  a  small  white  feather,  at  which  she 
laughed  again,  and  with  a  clear  and  rather  low  laugh. 
But  she  gave  no  explanation  of  Captain  Willoughby's 
errand.  Had  she  been  in  Mrs.  Adair's  place  she 
would  not  have  expected  one.  It  was  her  business 
and  only  hers. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE    MUSOLINE    OVERTURE 

Mrs.  Adair,  on  her  side,  asked  for  no  explana- 
tions. She  was  naturally,  behind  her  pale  and  placid 
countenance,  a  woman  of  a  tortuous  and  intriguing 
mind.  She  preferred  to  look  through  a  keyhole  even 
when  she  could  walk  straight  in  at  the  door  ;  and 
knowledge  which  could  be  gained  by  a  little  ma- 
noeuvring was  always  more  desirable  and  precious 
in  her  eyes  than  any  information  which  a  simple 
question  would  elicit.  She  avoided,  indeed,  the  direct 
question  on  a  perverted  sort  of  principle,  and  she 
thought  a  day  very  well  spent  if  at  the  close  of  it  she 
had  outwitted  a  companion  into  telling  her  spontane- 
ously some  trivial  and  unimportant  piece  of  news 
which  a  straightforward  request  would  have  at  once 
secured  for  her  at  breakfast-time. 

Therefore,  though  she  was  mystified  by  the  little 
white  feather  upon  which  Ethne  seemed  to  set  so 
much  store,  and  wondered  at  the  good  news  of  Harry 
Feversham  which  Captain  Willoughby  had  brought, 
and  vainly  puzzled  her  brains  in  conjecture  as  to 
what  in  the  world  could  have  happened  on  that  night 
at  Ramelton  so  many  years  ago,  she  betrayed  nothing 
whatever  of  her  perplexity  all  through  lunch  ;  on  the 
contrary,  she  plied  her  guest  with  conversation  upon 
indifferent  topics.      Mrs.  Adair  could  be  good  com- 

194 


THE    MUSOLINE    OVERTURE  195 

pany  when  she  chose,  and  she  chose  now.  But  it 
was  not  to  any  purpose. 

"  I  don't  believe  that  you  hear  a  single  word  I  am 
saying  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Ethne  laughed  and  pleaded  guilty.  She  betook 
herself  to  her  room  as  soon  as  lunch  was  finished, 
and  allowed  herself  an  afternoon  of  solitude.  Sitting 
at  her  window,  she  repeated  slowly  the  story  which 
Willoughby  had  told  to  her  that  morning,  and  her 
heart  thrilled  to  it  as  to  music  divinely  played.  The 
regret  that  he  had  not  come  home  and  told  it  a  year 
ago,  when  she  was  free,  was  a  small  thing  in  com- 
parison with  the  story  itself.  It  could  not  outweigh 
the  great  gladness  which  that  brought  to  her  —  it 
had,  indeed,  completely  vanished  from  her  thoughts. 
Her  pride,  which  had  never  recovered  from  the  blow 
which  Harry  Feversham  had  dealt  to  her  in  the  hall 
at  Lennon  House,  was  now  quite  restored,  and  by 
the  man  who  had  dealt  the  blow.  She  was  aglow 
with  it,  and  most  grateful  to  Harry  Feversham  for 
that  he  had,  at  so  much  peril  to  himself,  restored  it. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  new  exhilaration  in  the  sun- 
light, of  a  quicker  pulsation  in  her  blood.  Her  youth 
was  given  back  to  her  upon  that  August  afternoon. 

Ethne  unlocked  a  drawer  in  her  dressing-case,  and 
took  from  it  the  portrait  which  alone  of  all  Harry 
Feversham's  presents  she  had  kept.  She  rejoiced  that 
she  had  kept  it.  It  was  the  portrait  of  some  one  who 
was  dead  to  her  —  that  she  knew  very  well,  for  there 
was  no  thought  of  disloyalty  toward  Durrance  in  her 
breast — but  the  some  one  was  a  friend.  She  looked 
at  it  with  a  great  happiness  and  contentment,  because 
Harry  Feversham  had  needed  no  expression  of  faith 


196  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

from  her  to  inspire  him,  and  no  encouragement  from 
her  to  keep  him  through  the  years  on  the  level  of  his 
high  inspiration.  When  she  put  it  back  again,  she 
laid  the  white  feather  in  the  drawer  with  it  and  locked 
the  two  things  up  together. 

She  came  back  to  her  window.  Out  upon  the 
lawn  a  light  breeze  made  the  shadows  from  the  high 
trees  dance,  the  sunlight  mellowed  and  reddened. 
But  Ethne  was  of  her  county,  as  Harry  Feversham 
had  long  ago  discovered,  and  her  heart  yearned  for 
it  at  this  moment.  It  was  the  month  of  August. 
The  first  of  the  heather  would  be  out  upon  the  hill- 
sides of  Donegal,  and  she  wished  that  the  good  news 
had  been  brought  to  her  there.  The  regret  that  it 
had  not  was  her  crumpled  rose-leaf.  Here  she  was 
in  a  strange  land ;  there  the  brown  mountains,  with 
their  outcroppings  of  granite  and  the  voices  of  the 
streams,  would  have  shared,  she  almost  thought,  in 
her  new  happiness.  Great  sorrows  or  great  joys  had 
this  in  common  for  Ethne  Eustace,  they  both  drew 
her  homewards,  since  there  endurance  was  more  easy 
and  gladness  more  complete. 

She  had,  however,  one  living  tie  with  Donegal  at 
her  side,  for  Dermod's  old  collie  dog  had  become 
her  inseparable  companion.  To  him  she  made  her 
confidence,  and  if  at  times  her  voice  broke  in  tears, 
why,  the  dog  would  not  tell.  She  came  to  understand 
much  which  Willoughby  had  omitted,  and  which 
Feversham  had  never  told.  Those  three  years  of 
concealment  in  the  small  and  crowded  city  of  Sua- 
kin,  for  instance,  with  the  troops  marching  out  to 
battle,  and  returning  dust-strewn  and  bleeding  and 
laurelled   with   victory.      Harry    Feversham    had   to 


THE    MUSOLINE    OVERTURE  197 

slink  away  at  their  approach,  lest  some  old  friend  of 
his  —  Durrance,  perhaps,  or  Willoughby,  or  Trench 
—  should  notice  him  and  penetrate  his  disguise.  The 
panic  which  had  beset  him  when  first  he  saw  the  dark 
brown  walls  of  Berber,  the  night  in  the  ruined  acres, 
the  stumbling  search  for  the  well  amongst  the  shift- 
ing sandhills  of  Obak,  —  Ethne  had  vivid  pictures  of 
these  incidents,  and  as  she  thought  of  each  she  asked 
herself  :  "  Where  was  I  then  ?     What  was  I  doing  ?  " 

She  sat  in  a  golden  mist  until  the  lights  began  to 
change  upon  the  still  water  of  the  creek,  and  the 
rooks  wheeled  noisily  out  from  the  tree-tops  to  sort 
themselves  for  the  night,  and  warned  her  of  evening. 

She  brought  to  the  dinner-table  that  night  a  buoy- 
ancy of  spirit  which  surprised  her  companions.  Mrs. 
Adair  had  to  admit  that  seldom  had  her  eyes  shone 
so  starrily,  or  the  colour  so  freshly  graced  her  cheeks. 
She  was  more  than  ever  certain  that  Captain  Wil- 
loughby had  brought  stirring  news;  she  was  more 
than  ever  tortured  by  her  vain  efforts  to  guess  its 
nature.  But  Mrs.  Adair,  in  spite  of  her  perplexities, 
took  her  share  in  the  talk,  and  that  dinner  passed 
with  a  freedom  from  embarrassment  unknown  since 
Durrance  had  come  home  to  Guessens.  For  he,  too, 
threw  off  a  burden  of  restraint;  his  spirits  rose  to 
match  Ethne's ;  he  answered  laugh  with  laugh,  and 
from  his  face  that  habitual  look  of  tension,  the  look 
of  a  man  listening  with  all  his  might  that  his  ears 
might  make  good  the  loss  of  his  eyes,  passed  alto- 
gether away. 

"You  will  play  on  your  violin  to-night,  I  think," 
he  said  with  a  smile,  as  they  rose  from  the  table. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  will  —  with  all  my  heart." 


198  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Durrance  laughed  and  held  open  the  door.  The 
violin  had  remained  locked  in  its  case  during  these 
last  two  months.  Durrance  had  come  to  look  upon 
that  violin  as  a  gauge  and  test.  If  the  world  was 
going  well  with  Ethne,  the  case  was  unlocked,  the 
instrument  was  allowed  to  speak ;  if  the  world  went 
ill,  it  was  kept  silent  lest  it  should  say  too  much,  and 
open  old  wounds  and  lay  them  bare  to  other  eyes. 
Ethne  herself  knew  it  for  an  indiscreet  friend.  But 
it  was  to  be  brought  out  to-night. 

Mrs.  Adair  lingered  until  Ethne  was  out  of  ear-shot. 

"You  have  noticed  the  change  in  her  to-night?" 
she  said. 

"  Yes.  Have  I  not  ? "  answered  Durrance.  "  One 
has  waited  for  it,  hoped  for  it,  despaired  of  it." 

"  Are  you  so  glad  of  the  change  ? " 

Durrance  threw  back  his  head.  "  Do  you  wonder 
that  I  am  glad?  Kind,  friendly,  unselfish  —  these 
things  she  has  always  been.  But  there  is  more  than 
friendliness  evident  to-night,  and  for  the  first  time  it's 
evident." 

There  came  a  look  of  pity  upon  Mrs.  Adair's  face, 
and  she  passed  out  of  the  room  without  another  word. 
Durrance  took  all  of  that  great  change  in  Ethne  to 
himself.  Mrs.  Adair  drew  up  the  blinds  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, opened  the  window,  and  let  the  moonlight 
in ;  and  then,  as  she  saw  Ethne  unlocking  the  case 
of  her  violin,  she  went  out  on  to  the  terrace.  She 
felt  that  she  could  not  sit  patiently  in  her  company. 
So  that  when  Durrance  entered  the  drawing-room  he 
found  Ethne  alone  there.  She  was  seated  in  the  win- 
dow, and  already  tightening  the  strings  of  her  violin. 
Durrance  took  a  chair  behind  her  in  the  shadows. 


THE    MUSOLINE    OVERTURE  199 

"  What  shall  I  play  to  you  ? "  she  asked. 

"The  Musoline  Overture,"  he  answered.  "You 
played  it  on  the  first  evening  when  I  came  to  Ramel- 
ton.  I  remember  so  well  how  you  played  it  then. 
Play  it  again  to-night.     I  want  to  compare." 

"  I  have  played  it  since." 

"  Never  to  me." 

They  were  alone  in  the  room ;  the  windows  stood 
open ;  it  was  a  night  of  moonlight.  Ethne  suddenly 
crossed  to  the  lamp  and  put  it  out.  She  resumed  her 
seat,  while  Durrance  remained  in  the  shadow,  leaning 
forward,  with  his  hands  upon  his  knees,  listening  —  but 
with  an  intentness  of  which  he  had  given  no  sign  that 
evening.  He  was  applying,  as  he  thought,  a  final 
test  upon  which  his  life  and  hers  should  be  decided. 
Ethne's  violin  would  tell  him  assuredly  whether  he 
was  right  or  no.  Would  friendship  speak  from  it  or 
the  something  more  than  friendship  ? 

Ethne  played  the  overture,  and  as  she  played  she 
forgot  that  Durrance  was  in  the  room  behind  her. 
In  the  garden  the  air  was  still  and  summer-warm 
and  fragrant ;  on  the  creek  the  moonlight  lay  like  a 
solid  floor  of  silver ;  the  trees  stood  dreaming  to  the 
stars ;  and  as  the  music  floated  loud  out  across  the 
silent  lawn,  Ethne  had  a  sudden  fancy  that  it 
might  perhaps  travel  down  the  creek  and  over  Sal- 
combe  Bar  and  across  the  moonlit  seas,  and  strike 
small  yet  wonderfully  clear  like  fairy  music  upon 
the  ears  of  a  man  sleeping  somewhere  far  away 
beneath  the  brightness  of  the  southern  stars  with 
the  cool  night  wind  of  the  desert  blowing  upon  his 
face. 

"If  he  could  only  hear!"  she  thought.     "If  he 


200  THE  FOUR    FEATHERS 

could  only  wake  and  know  that  what  he  heard  was  a 
message  of  friendship  !  " 

And  with  this  fancy  in  her  mind  she  played  with 
such  skill  as  she  had  never  used  before ;  she  made  of 
her  violin  a  voice  of  sympathy.  The  fancy  grew  and 
changed  as  she  played.  The  music  became  a  bridge 
swung  in  mid-air  across  the  world,  upon  which  just 
for  these  few  minutes  she  and  Harry  Feversham 
might  meet  and  shake  hands.  They  would  sepa- 
rate, of  course,  forthwith,  and  each  one  go  upon  the 
allotted  way.  But  these  few  minutes  would  be  a 
help  to  both  along  the  separate  ways.  The  chords 
rang  upon  silence.  It  seemed  to  Ethne  that  they 
declaimed  the  pride  which  had  come  to  her  that  day. 
Her  fancy  grew  into  a  belief.  It  was  no  longer  "  If 
he  should  hear,"  but  "  He  must  hear !  "  And  so  car- 
ried away  was  she  from  the  discretion  of  thought  that 
a  strange  hope  suddenly  sprang  up  and  enthralled 
her. 

"  If  he  could  answer ! " 

She  lingered  upon  the  last  bars,  waiting  for  the 
answer;  and  when  the  music  had  died  down  to 
silence,  she  sat  with  her  violin  upon  her  knees,  look- 
ing eagerly  out  across  the  moonlit  garden. 

And  an  answer  did  come,  but  it  was  not  carried  up 
the  creek  and  across  the  lawn.  It  came  from  the 
dark  shadows  of  the  room  behind  her,  and  it  was 
spoken  through  the  voice  of  Durrance. 

"  Ethne,  where  do  you  think  I  heard  that  overture 
last  played  ? " 

Ethne  was  roused  with  a  start  to  the  consciousness 
that  Durrance  was  in  the  room,  and  she  answered 
like  one  shaken  suddenly  out  of  sleep. 


THE    MUSOLINE    OVERTURE  201 

"  Why,  you  told  me.  At  Ramelton,  when  you  first 
came  to  Lennon  House." 

"  I  have  heard  it  since,  though  it  was  not  played 
by  you.  It  was  not  really  played  at  all.  But  a 
melody  of  it  and  not  even  that  really,  but  a  sugges- 
tion of  a  melody,  I  heard  stumbled  out  upon  a  zither, 
with  many  false  notes,  by  a  Greek  in  a  bare  little 
whitewashed  cafe,  lit  by  one  glaring  lamp,  at  Wadi 
Haifa." 

"  This  overture  ?  "  she  said.     "  How  strange  ! " 

"Not  so  strange  after  all.  For  the  Greek  was 
Harry  Feversham." 

So  the  answer  had  come.  Ethne  had  no  doubt 
that  it  was  an  answer.  She  sat  very  still  in  the 
moonlight;  only  had  any  one  bent  over  her  with 
eyes  to  see,  he  would  have  discovered  that  her  eye- 
lids were  closed.  There  followed  a  long  silence.  She 
did  not  consider  why  Durrance,  having  kept  this 
knowledge  secret  so  long,  should  speak  of  it  now. 
She  did  not  ask  what  Harry  Feversham  was  doing 
that  he  must  play  the  zither  in  a  mean  cafe  at  Wadi 
Haifa.  But  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  spoken  to 
her  as  she  to  him.  The  music  had,  after  all,  been  a 
bridge.  It  was  not  even  strange  that  he  had  used 
Durrance's  voice  wherewith  to  speak  to  her. 

"When  was  this  ? "  she  asked  at  length. 

"  In  February  of  this  year.    I  will  tell  you  about  it." 

"Yes,  please,  tell  me." 

And  Durrance  spoke  out  of  the  shadows  of  the 
room. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE  ANSWER  TO  THE  OVERTURE 

Ethne  did  not  turn  towards  Durrance  or  move  at 
all  from  her  attitude.  She  sat  with  her  violin  upon 
her  knees,  looking  across  the  moonlit  garden  to  the 
band  of  silver  in  the  gap  of  the  trees ;  and  she  kept 
her  position  deliberately.  For  it  helped  her  to  be- 
lieve that  Harry  Feversham  himself  was  speaking  to 
her,  she  was  able  to  forget  that  he  was  speaking- 
through  the  voice  of  Durrance.  She  almost  forgot 
that  Durrance  was  even  in  the  room.  She  listened 
with  Durrance's  own  intentness,  and  anxious  that  the 
voice  should  speak  very  slowly,  so  that  the  message 
might  take  a  long  time  in  the  telling,  and  she  gather 
it  all  jealously  to  her  heart. 

"  It  was  on  the  night  before  I  started  eastward  into 
the  desert  —  for  the  last  time,"  said  Durrance,  and  the 
deep  longing  and  regret  with  which  he  dwelt  upon 
that  "  last  time  "  for  once  left  Ethne  quite  untouched. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  That  was  in  February.  The 
middle  of  the  month,  wasn't  it  ?  Do  you  remember 
the  day  ?  I  should  like  to  know  the  exact  day  if  you 
can  tell  me." 

"The  fifteenth,"  said  Durrance;  and  Ethne  re- 
peated the  date  meditatively. 

"  I  was  at  Glenalla  all  February,"  she  said.  "  What 
was  I  doing  on  the  fifteenth?     It  does  not  matter." 

202 


THE   ANSWER    TO    THE    OVERTURE       203 

She  had  felt  a  queer  sort  of  surprise  all  the  time 
while  Willoughby  was  telling  his  story  that  morning, 
that  she  had  not  known,  by  some  instinct,  of  these 
incidents  at  the  actual  moment  of  their  occurrence. 
The  surprise  returned  to  her  now.  It  was  strange 
that  she  should  have  had  to  wait  for  this  August 
night  and  this  summer  garden  of  moonlight  and 
closed  flowers  before  she  learned  of  the  meeting 
between  Feversham  and  Durrance  on  February  15 
and  heard  the  message.  And  remorse  came  to  her 
because  of  that  delay.  "It  was  my  own  fault,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "If  I  had  kept  my  faith  in  him  I 
should  have  known  at  once.  I  am  well  punished." 
It  did  not  at  all  occur  to  her  that  the  message  could 
convey  any  but  the  best  of  news.  It  would  carry  on 
the  good  tidings  which  she  had  already  heard.  It 
would  enlarge  and  complete,  so  that  this  day  might 
be  rounded  to  perfection.  Of  this  she  was  quite 
sure. 

"Well?"  she  said.     "Goon!" 

"  I  had  been  busy  all  that  day  in  my  office  finish- 
ing up  my  work.  I  turned  the  key  in  the  door  at 
ten  o'clock,  thinking  with  relief  that  for  six  weeks  I 
should  not  open  it,  and  I  strolled  northward  out  of 
Wadi  Haifa  along  the  Nile  bank  into  the  little  town 
of  Tewfikieh.  As  I  entered  the  main  street  I  saw  a 
small  crowd  —  Arabs,  negroes,  a  Greek  or  two,  and 
some  Egyptian  soldiers,  standing  outside  the  cafe, 
and  lit  up  by  a  glare  of  light  from  within.  As  I 
came  nearer  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  violin  and  a 
zither,  both  most  vilely  played,  jingling  out  a  waltz. 
I  stood  at  the  back  of  the  crowd  and  looked  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  men  in  front  of  me  into  the  room. 


204  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

It  was  a  place  of  four  bare  whitewashed  walls;  a  bar 
stood  in  one  corner,  a  wooden  bench  or  two  were 
ranged  against  the  walls,  and  a  single  unshaded 
paraffin  lamp  swung  and  glared  from  the  ceiling. 
A  troupe  of  itinerant  musicians  were  playing  to  that 
crowd  of  negroes  and  Arabs  and  Egyptians  for  a 
night's  lodging  and  the  price  of  a  meal.  There  were 
four  of  them,  and,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  all  four  were 
Greeks.  Two  were  evidently  man  and  wife.  They 
were  both  old,  both  slatternly  and  almost  in  rags  ; 
the  man  a  thin,  sallow-faced  fellow,  with  grey  hair 
and  a  black  moustache ;  the  woman  fat,  coarse  of 
face,  unwieldy  of  body.  Of  the  other  two,  one  it 
seemed  must  be  their  daughter,  a  girl  of  seventeen, 
not  good-looking  really,  but  dressed  and  turned  out 
with  a  scrupulous  care,  which  in  those  sordid  and 
mean  surroundings  lent  her  good  looks.  The  care, 
indeed,  with  which  she  was  dressed  assured  me  she 
was  their  daughter,  and  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  rather 
touched  by  the  thought  that  the  father  and  mother 
would  go  in  rags  so  that  she  at  all  costs  might  be 
trim.  A  clean  ribbon  bound  back  her  hair,  an 
untorn  frock  of  some  white  stuff  clothed  her  tidily ; 
even  her  shoes  were  neat.  The  fourth  was  a  young 
man  ;  he  was  seated  in  the  window,  with  his  back 
towards  me,  bending  over  his  zither.  But  I  could  see 
that  he  wore  a  beard.  When  I  came  up  the  old  man 
was  playing  the  violin,  though  playing  is  not  indeed 
the  word.  The  noise  he  made  was  more  like  the 
squeaking  of  a  pencil  on  a  slate  ;  it  set  one's  teeth 
on  edge;  the  violin  itself  seemed  to  squeal  with  pain. 
And  while  he  fiddled,  and  the  young  man  hammered 
at  his  zither,  the  old  woman  and  girl  slowly  revolved 


THE    ANSWER    TO    THE    OVERTURE       205 

in  a  waltz.  It  may  sound  comic  to  hear  about,  but  if 
you  could  have  seen  !  .  .  .  It  fairly  plucked  at  one's 
heart.  I  do  not  think  that  I  have  ever  in  my 
life  witnessed  anything  quite  so  sad.  The  little 
crowd  outside,  negroes,  mind  you,  laughing  at  the 
troupe,  passing  from  one  to  the  other  any  sort  of  low 
jest  at  their  expense,  and  inside  the  four  white 
people  —  the  old  woman,  clumsy,  heavy-footed,  shin- 
ing with  heat,  lumbering  round  slowly,  panting  with 
her  exertions  ;  the  girl,  lissom  and  young ;  the  two 
men  with  their  discordant,  torturing  music ;  and  just 
above  you  the  great  planets  and  stars  of  an  African 
sky,  and  just  about  you  the  great  silent  and  spacious 
dignity  of  the  moonlit  desert.  Imagine  it !  The  very 
ineptness  of  the  entertainment  actually  hurt  one." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  while  Ethne  pictured  to 
herself  the  scene  which  he  had  described.  She  saw 
Harry  Feversham  bending  over  his  zither,  and  at 
once  she  asked  herself,  "  What  was  he  doing  with 
that  troupe  ?  "  It  was  intelligible  enough  that  he 
would  not  care  to  return  to  England.  It  was  certain 
that  he  would  not  come  back  to  her,  unless  she  sent 
for  him.  And  she  knew  from  what  Captain  Wil- 
loughby  had  said  that  he  expected  no  message  from 
her.  He  had  not  left  with  Willoughby  the  name  of 
any  place  where  a  letter  could  reach  him.  But  what 
was  he  doing  at  Wadi  Haifa,  masquerading  with  this 
itinerant  troupe  ?  He  had  money ;  so  much  Wil- 
loughby had  told  her. 

"  You  spoke  to  him  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

"  To  whom  ?  Oh,  to  Harry  ?  "  returned  Durrance. 
"  Yes,  afterwards,  when  I  found  out  it  was  he  who 
was  playing  the  zither." 


zo6  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  Yes,  how  did  you  find  out?  "  Ethne  asked. 

"  The  waltz  came  to  an  end.  The  old  woman 
sank  exhausted  upon  the  bench  against  the  white- 
washed wall ;  the  young  man  raised  his  head  from 
his  zither;  the  old  man  scraped  a  new  chord  upon 
his  violin,  and  the  girl  stood  forward  to  sing.  Her 
voice  had  youth  and  freshness,  but  no  other  quality 
of  music.  Her  singing  was  as  inept  as  the  rest  of 
the  entertainment.  Yet  the  old  man  smiled,  the 
mother  beat  time  with  her  heavy  foot,  and  nodded 
at  her  husband  with  pride  in  their  daughter's  accom- 
plishment. And  again  in  the  throng  the  ill-condi- 
tioned talk,  the  untranslatable  jests  of  the  Arabs  and 
the  negroes  went  their  round.  It  was  horrible,  don't 
you  think  ? " 

"Yes,"  answered  Ethne,  but  slowly,  in  an  absent 
voice.  As  she  had  felt  no  sympathy  for  Durrance 
when  he  began  to  speak,  so  she  had  none  to  spare 
for  these  three  outcasts  of  fortune.  She  was  too  ab- 
sorbed in  the  mystery  of  Harry  Feversham's  pres- 
ence at  Wadi  Haifa.  She  was  listening  too  closely 
for  the  message  which  he  sent  to  her.  Through  the 
open  window  the  moon  threw  a  broad  panel  of  silver 
light  upon  the  floor  of  the  room  close  to  her  feet. 
She  sat  gazing  into  it  as  she  listened,  as  though  it 
was  itself  a  window  through  which,  if  she  looked  but 
hard  enough,  she  might  see,  very  small  and  far 
away,  that  lighted  cafe  blazing  upon  the  street  of 
the  little  town  of  Tewfikieh  on  the  frontier  of  the 
Soudan. 

"Well?"  she  asked.  "And  after  the  song  was 
ended  ? " 

"The  young  man  with  his  back  towards  me,"  Dur- 


THE   ANSWER    TO    THE    OVERTURE       207 

ranee  resumed,  "  began  to  fumble  out  a  solo  upon 
the  zither.  He  struck  so  many  false  notes,  no  tune 
was  to  be  apprehended  at  the  first.  The  laughter 
and  noise  grew  amongst  the  crowd,  and  I  was  just 
turning  away,  rather  sick  at  heart,  when  some  notes, 
a  succession  of  notes  played  correctly  by  chance, 
suddenly  arrested  me.  I  listened  again,  and  a  sort 
of  haunting  melody  began  to  emerge  —  a  weak  thin 
thing  with  no  soul  in  it,  a  ghost  of  a  melody,  and  yet 
familiar.  I  stood  listening  in  the  street  of  sand,  be- 
tween the  hovels  fringed  by  a  row  of  stunted  trees, 
and  I  was  carried  away  out  of  the  East  to  Ramelton 
and  to  a  summer  night  beneath  a  melting  sky  of 
Donegal,  when  you  sat  by  the  open  window  as  you 
sit  now  and  played  the  Musoline  Overture,  which 
you  have  played  again  to-night." 

"  It  was  a  melody  from  this  overture  ?  "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"Yes,  and  it  was  Harry  Feversham  who  played 
the  melody.  I  did  not  guess  it  at  once.  I  was  not 
very  quick  in  those  days." 

"  But  you  are  now,"  said  Ethne. 

"  Quicker,  at  all  events.  I  should  have  guessed  it 
now.  Then,  however,  I  was  only  curious.  I  won- 
dered how  it  was  that  an  itinerant  Greek  came  to 
pick  up  the  tune.  At  all  events,  I  determined  to 
reward  him  for  his  diligence.  I  thought  that  you 
would  like  me  to." 

"Yes,"  said  Ethne,  in  a  whisper. 

"  So,  when  he  came  out  from  the  cafe,  and  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand  passed  through  the  jeering  crowd, 
I  threw  a  sovereign  into  the  hat.  He  turned  to  me 
with  a  start  of  surprise.     In  spite  of  his  beard  I  knew 


2o8  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

him.     Besides,  before   he   could   check   himself,   he 
cried  out  'Jack  !  '" 

"  You  can  have  made  no  mistake,  then,"  said  Ethne, 
in  a  wondering  voice.  "  No,  the  man  who  strummed 
upon  the  zither  was  —  "  the  Christian  name  was  upon 
her  lips,  but  she  had  the  wit  to  catch  it  back  unuttered 
—  "  was  Mr.  Feversham.  But  he  knew  no  music 
I  remember  very  well."  She  laughed  with  a  momen- 
tary recollection  of  Feversham' s  utter  inability  to 
appreciate  any  music  except  that  which  she  herself 
evoked  from  her  violin.  "  He  had  no  ear.  You 
couldn't  invent  a  discord  harsh  enough  even  to  attract 
his  attention.  He  could  never  have  remembered  any 
melody  from  the  Musoline  Overture." 

"Yet  it  was  Harry  Feversham,"  he  answered. 
"  Somehow  he  had  remembered.  I  can  understand 
it.  He  would  have  so  little  he  cared  to  remember, 
and  that  little  he  would  have  striven  with  all  his 
might  to  bring  clearly  back  to  mind.  Somehow,  too, 
by  much  practice,  I  suppose,  he  had  managed  to  elicit 
from  his  zither  some  sort  of  resemblance  to  what  he 
remembered.  Can't  you  imagine  him  working  the 
scrap  of  music  out  in  his  brain,  humming  it  over, 
whistling  it  uncounted  times  with  perpetual  errors 
and  confusions,  until  some  fine  day  he  got  it  safe 
and  sure  and  fixed  it  in  his  thoughts  ?  I  can.  Can't 
you  imagine  him,  then,  picking  it  out  sedulously  and 
laboriously  on  the  strings  ?     I  can.     Indeed,  I  can." 

Thus  Ethne  got  her  answer,  and  Durrance  inter- 
preted it  to  her  understanding.  She  sat  silent  and 
very  deeply  moved  by  the  story  he  had  told  to  her.  It 
was  fitting  that  this  overture,  her  favourite  piece  of 
music,  should  convey  the  message  that  he  had  not 


THE   ANSWER    TO    THE    OVERTURE       209 

forgotten  her,  that  in  spite  of  the  fourth  white  feather 
he  thought  of  her  with  friendship.  Harry  Fever- 
sham  had  not  striven  so  laboriously  to  learn  that  mel- 
ody in  vain.  Ethne  was  stirred  as  she  had  thought 
nothing  would  ever  again  have  the  power  to  stir  her. 
She  wondered  whether  Harry,  as  he  sat  in  the  little 
bare  white-washed  cafe,  and  strummed  out  his  music 
to  the  negroes  and  Greeks  and  Arabs  gathered  about 
the  window,  had  dreamed,  as  she  had  done  to-night, 
that  somehow,  thin  and  feeble  as  it  was,  some  echo 
of  the  melody  might  reach  across  the  world.  She 
knew  now  for  very  certain  that,  however  much  she 
might  in  the  future  pretend  to  forget  Harry  Fever- 
sham,  it  would  never  be  more  than  a  pretence.  The 
vision  of  the  lighted  cafe  in  the  desert  town  would 
never  be  very  far  from  her  thoughts,  but  she  had  no 
intention  of  relaxing  on  that  account  from  her  deter- 
mination to  pretend  to  forget.  The  mere  knowledge 
that  she  had  at  one  time  been  unjustly  harsh  to  Harry, 
made  her  yet  more  resolved  that  Durrance  should 
not  suffer  for  any  fault  of  hers. 

"  I  told  you  last  year,  Ethne,  at  Hill  Street,"  Dur- 
rance resumed,  "  that  I  never  wished  to  see  Fever- 
sham  again.  I  was  wrong.  The  reluctance  was  all 
on  his  side  and  not  at  all  on  mine.  For  the  moment 
that  he  realised  he  had  called  out  my  name  he  tried 
to  edge  backward  from  me  into  the  crowd,  he  began 
to  gabble  Greek,  but  I  caught  him  by  the  arm,  and 
I  would  not  let  him  go.  He  had  done  you  some  great 
wrong.  That  I  know;  that  I  knew.  But  I  could 
not  remember  it  then.  I  only  remembered  that  years 
before  Harry  Feversham  had  been  my  friend,  my  one 
great  friend ;  that  we  had  rowed  in  the  same  college 
p 


210  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

boat  at  Oxford,  he  at  stroke,  I  at  seven;  that  the 
stripes  on  his  jersey  during  three  successive  eights 
had  made  my  eyes  dizzy  during  those  last  hundred 
yards  of  spurt  past  the  barges.  We  had  bathed  to- 
gether in  Sandford  Lasher  on  summer  afternoons. 
We  had  had  supper  on  Kennington  Island ;  we  had 
cut  lectures  and  paddled  up  the  Cher  to  Islip.  And 
here  he  was  at  Wadi  Haifa,  herding  with  that  troupe, 
an  outcast,  sunk  to  such  a  depth  of  ill-fortune  that  he 
must  come  to  that  squalid  little  town  and  play  the 
zither  vilely  before  a  crowd  of  natives  and  a  few 
Greek  clerks  for  his  night's  lodging  and  the  price  of 
a  meal." 

"  No,"  Ethne  interrupted  suddenly.  "  It  was  not 
for  that  reason  that  he  went  to  Wadi  Haifa." 

"  Why,  then  ?  "  asked  Durrance. 

"  I  cannot  think.  But  he  was  not  in  any  need  of 
money.  His  father  had  continued  his  allowance,  and 
he  had  accepted  it." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.     I  heard  it  only  to-day,"  said  Ethne. 

It  was  a  slip,  but  Ethne  for  once  was  off  her  guard 
that  night.  She  did  not  even  notice  that  she  had 
made  a  slip.  She  was  too  engrossed  in  Durrance's 
story.  Durrance  himself,  however,  was  not  less  pre- 
occupied, and  so  the  statement  passed  for  the  moment 
unobserved  by  either. 

"  So  you  never  knew  what  brought  Mr.  Feversham 
to  Haifa  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Did  you  not  ask  him?  Why 
didn't  you  ?     Why  ?  " 

She  was  disappointed,  and  the  bitterness  of  her 
disappointment  gave  passion  to  her  cry.  Here  was 
the  last  news  of  Harry  Feversham,  and  it  was  brought 


THE   ANSWER    TO    THE    OVERTURE       211 

to  her  incomplete,  like  the  half  sheet  of  a  letter.  The 
omission  might  never  be  repaired. 

"  I  was  a  fool,"  said  Durrance.  There  was  almost 
as  much  regret  in  his  voice  now  as  there  had  been  in 
hers ;  and  because  of  that  regret  he  did  not  remark 
the  passion  with  which  she  had  spoken.  "  I  shall 
not  easily  forgive  myself.  He  was  my  friend,  you 
see.  I  had  him  by  the  arm,  and  I  let  him  go.  I  was 
a  fool."  And  he  knocked  upon  his  forehead  with 
his  fist. 

"  He  tried  Arabic,"  Durrance  resumed,  "  pleading 
that  he  and  his  companions  were  just  poor  peaceable 
people,  that  if  I  had  given  him  too  much  money, 
I  should  take  it  back,  and  all  the  while  he  dragged 
away  from  me.  But  I  held  him  fast.  I  said,  '  Harry 
Feversham,  that  won't  do,'  and  upon  that  he  gave 
in  and  spoke  in  English,  whispering  it.  '  Let  me  go, 
Jack,  let  me  go.'  There  was  the  crowd  about  us. 
It  was  evident  that  Harry  had  some  reason  for 
secrecy ;  it  might  have  been  shame,  for  all  I  knew, 
shame  at  his  downfall.  I  said,  '  Come  up  to  my 
quarters  in  Haifa  as  soon  as  you  are  free,'  and  I  let 
him  go.  All  that  night  I  waited  for  him  on  the  ve- 
randah, but  he  did  not  come.  In  the  morning  I  had 
to  start  across  the  desert.  I  almost  spoke  of  him  to 
a  .friend  who  came  to  see  me  start,  to  Calder,  in  fact 
—  you  know  of  him  —  the  man  who  sent  you  the 
telegram,"  said  Durrance,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  Ethne  answered. 

It  was  the  second  slip  she  had  made  that  night. 
The  receipt  of  Calder's  telegram  was  just  one  of  the 
things  which  Durrance  was  not  to  know.  But  again 
she  was  unaware  that  she  had  made  a  slip   at   all. 


212  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

She  did  not  even  consider  how  Durrance  had  come 
to  know  or  guess  that  the  telegram  had  ever  been 
despatched. 

"  At  the  very  last  moment,"  Durrance  resumed, 
"  when  my  camel  had  risen  from  the  ground,  I  stooped 
down  to  speak  to  him,  to  tell  him  to  see  to  Fever- 
sham.  But  I  did  not.  You  see  I  knew  nothing  about 
his  allowance.  I  merely  thought  that  he  had  fallen 
rather  low.  It  did  not  seem  fair  to  him  that  another 
should  know  of  it.     So  I  rode  on  and  kept  silence." 

Ethne  nodded  her  head.  She  could  not  but 
approve,  however  poignant  her  regret  for  the  lost 
news. 

"  So  you  never  saw  Mr.  Feversham  again  ? " 

"  I  was  away  nine  weeks.  I  came  back  blind,"  he 
answered  simply,  and  the  very  simplicity  of  his  words 
went  to  Ethne's  heart.  He  was  apologising  for  his 
blindness,  which  had  hindered  him  from  inquiring. 
She  began  to  wake  to  the  comprehension  that  it  was 
really  Durrance  who  was  speaking  to  her,  but  he  con- 
tinued to  speak,  and  what  he  said  drove  her  quite  out 
of  all  caution. 

"  I  went  at  once  to  Cairo,  and  Calder  came  with 
me.  There  I  told  him  of  Harry  Feversham,  and  how 
I  had  seen  him  at  Tewfikieh.  I  asked  Calder  when 
he  got  back  to  Haifa  to  make  inquiries,  to  find  and 
help  Harry  Feversham  if  he  could ;  I  asked  him,  too, 
to  let  me  know  the  result.  I  received  a  letter  from 
Calder  a  week  ago,  and  I  am  troubled  by  it,  very 
much  troubled." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  Ethne  asked  apprehensively, 
and  she  turned  in  her  chair  away  from  the  moonlight 
towards  the  shadows  of  the  room  and  Durrance.     She 


THE   ANSWER    TO    THE    OVERTURE       213 

bent  forward  to  see  his  face,  but  the  darkness  hid  it. 
A  sudden  fear  struck  through  her  and  chilled  her 
blood,  but  out  of  the  darkness  Durrance  spoke. 

"  That  the  two  women  and  the  old  Greek  had  gone 
back  northward  on  a  steamer  to  Assouan." 

"  Mr.  Feversham  remained  at  Wadi  Haifa,  then  ? 
That  is  so,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  said  eagerly. 

"  No,"  Durrance  replied.  "  Harry  Feversham  did 
not  remain.  He  slipped  past  Haifa  the  day  after  I 
started  toward  the  east.  He  went  out  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  to  the  south." 

"Into  the  desert?" 

"Yes,  but  the  desert  to  the  south,  the  enemy's 
country.  He  went  just  as  I  saw  him,  carrying  his 
zither.     He  was  seen.     There  can  be  no  doubt." 

Ethne  was  quite  silent  for  a  little  while.  Then  she 
asked :  — 

"  You  have  that  letter  with  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  should  like  to  read  it." 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  walked  across  to  Dur- 
rance. He  took  the  letter  from  his  pocket  and  gave 
it  to  her,  and  she  carried  it  over  to  the  window.  The 
moonlight  was  strong.  Ethne  stood  close  by  the  win- 
dow, with  a  hand  pressed  upon  her  heart,  and  read  it 
through  once  and  again.  The  letter  was  explicit; 
the  Greek  who  owned  the  caf6  at  which  the  troupe 
had  performed  admitted  that  Joseppi,  under  which 
name  he  knew  Feversham,  had  wandered  south,  carry- 
ing a  water-skin  and  a  store  of  dates,  though  why,  he 
either  did  not  know  or  would  not  tell.  Ethne  had  a 
question  to  ask,  but  it  was  some  time  before  she  could 
trust  her  lips  to  utter  it  distinctly  and  without  faltering. 


214  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  What  will  happen  to  him  ?  " 

"  At  the  best,  capture ;  at  the  worst,  death.  Death 
by  starvation,  or  thirst,  or  at  the  hands  of  the  Der- 
vishes. But  there  is  just  a  hope  it  might  be  only  cap- 
ture and  imprisonment.  You  see  he  was  white.  If 
caught,  his  captors  might  think  him  a  spy;  they 
would  be  sure  he  had  knowledge  of  our  plans  and 
our  strength.  I  think  that  they  would  most  likely 
send  him  to  Omdurman.  I  have  written  to  Calder. 
Spies  go  out  and  in  from  Wadi  Haifa.  We  often 
hear  of  things  which  happen  in  Omdurman.  If 
Feversham  is  taken  there,  sooner  or  later  I  shall 
know.  But  he  must  have  gone  mad.  It  is  the  only 
explanation." 

Ethne  had  another,  and  she  knew  hers  to  be  the 
right  one.  She  was  off  her  guard,  and  she  spoke  it 
aloud  to  Durrance. 

"  Colonel  Trench,"  said  she,  "is  a  prisoner  at  Om- 
durman." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  Durrance.  "  Feversham  will 
not  be  quite  alone.  There  is  some  comfort  in  that, 
and  perhaps  something  may  be  done.  When  I  hear 
from  Calder  I  will  tell  you.  Perhaps  something  may 
be  done." 

It  was  evident  that  Durrance  had  misconstrued  her 
remark.  He  at  all  events  was  still  in  the  dark  as  to 
the  motive  which  had  taken  Feversham  southward 
beyond  the  Egyptian  patrols.  And  he  must  remain 
in  the  dark.  For  Ethne  did  not  even  now  slacken  in 
her  determination  still  to  pretend  to  have  forgotten. 
She  stood  at  the  window  with  the  letter  clenched  in 
her  hand.  She  must  utter  no  cry,  she  must  not  swoon ; 
she  must  keep  very  still  and  quiet,  and  speak  when 


THE   ANSWER    TO    THE    OVERTURE       215 

needed  with  a  quiet  voice,  even  though  she  knew  that 
Harry  Feversham  had  gone  southward  to  join  Colo- 
nel Trench  at  Omdurman.  But  so  much  was  beyond 
her  strength.  For  as  Colonel  Durrance  began  to 
speak  again,  the  desire  to  escape,  to  be  alone  with 
this  terrible  news,  became  irresistible.  The  cool 
quietude  of  the  garden,  the  dark  shadows  of  the  trees, 
called  to  her. 

"Perhaps  you  will  wonder,"  said  Durrance,  "why 
I  have  told  you  to-night  what  I  have  up  till  now  kept 
to  myself.  I  did  not  dare  to  tell  it  you  before.  I 
want  to  explain  why." 

Ethne  did  not  notice  the  exultation  in  his  voice  ;  she 
did  not  consider  what  his  explanation  might  be ;  she 
only  felt  that  she  could  not  now  endure  to  listen  to  it. 
The  mere  sound  of  a  human  voice  had  become  an  un- 
endurable thing.  She  hardly  knew  indeed  that  Dur- 
rance was  speaking,  she  was  only  aware  that  a  voice 
spoke,  and  that  the  voice  must  stop.  She  was  close 
by  the  window ;  a  single  silent  step,  and  she  was  across 
the  sill  and  free.  Durrance  continued  to  speak  out 
of  the  darkness,  engrossed  in  what  he  said,  and  Ethne 
did  not  listen  to  a  word.  She  gathered  her  skirts 
carefully,  so  that  they  should  not  rustle,  and  stepped 
from  the  window.  This  was  the  third  slip  which  she 
made  upon  that  eventful  night. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MRS.    ADAIR    INTERFERES 

Ethne  had  thought  to  escape  quite  unobserved ;  but 
Mrs.  Adair  was  sitting  upon  the  terrace  in  the  shadow 
of  the  house  and  not  very  far  from  the  open  win- 
dow of  the  drawing-room.  She  saw  Ethne  lightly 
cross  the  terrace  and  run  down  the  steps  into  the 
garden,  and  she  wondered  at  the  precipitancy  of  her 
movements.  Ethne  seemed  to  be  taking  flight,  and 
in  a  sort  of  desperation.  The  incident  was  singular, 
and  remarkably  singular  to  Mrs.  Adair,  who  from  the 
angle  in  which  she  sat  commanded  a  view  of  that 
open  window  through  which  the  moonlight  shone. 
She  had  seen  Ethne  turn  out  the  lamp,  and  the  swift 
change  in  the  room  from  light  to  dark,  with  its  sug- 
gestion of  secrecy  and  the  private  talk  of  lovers,  had 
been  a  torture  to  her.  But  she  had  not  fled  from  the 
torture.  She  had  sat  listening,  and  the  music  as  it 
floated  out  upon  the  garden  with  its  thrill  of  happi- 
ness, its  accent  of  yearning,  and  the  low,  hushed  con- 
versation which  followed  upon  its  cessation  in  that 
darkened  room,  had  struck  upon  a  chord  of  imagina- 
tion in  Mrs.  Adair  and  had  kindled  her  jealousy  into 
a  scorching  flame.  Then  suddenly  Ethne  had  taken 
flight.  The  possibility  of  a  quarrel  Mrs.  Adair  dis- 
missed from  her  thoughts.  She  knew  very  well  that 
Ethne  was  not  of  the  kind  which  quarrels,  nor  would 

216 


MRS.    ADAIR    INTERFERES  217 

she  escape  by  running  away,  should  she  be  entangled 
in  a  quarrel.  But  something  still  more  singular 
occurred.  Durrance  continued  to  speak  in  that  room 
from  which  Ethne  had  escaped.  The  sound  of  his 
voice  reached  Mrs.  Adair's  ears,  though  she  could 
not  distinguish  the  words.  It  was  clear  to  her  that 
he  believed  Ethne  to  be  still  with  him.  Mrs.  Adair 
rose  from  her  seat  and,  walking  silently  upon  the  tips 
of  her  toes,  came  close  to  the  open  window.  She 
heard  Durrance  laugh  light-heartedly,  and  she  listened 
to  the  words  he  spoke.  She  could  hear  them  plainly 
now,  though  she  could  not  see  the  man  who  spoke 
them.     He  sat  in  the  shadows. 

"I  began  to  find  out,"  he  was  saying,  "even  on 
that  first  afternoon  at  Hill  Street  two  months  ago, 
that  there  was  only  friendship  on  your  side.  My 
blindness  helped  me.  With  your  face  and  your  eyes 
in  view  I  should  have  believed  without  question  just 
what  you  wished  me  to  believe.  But  you  had  no 
longer  those  defences.  I  on  my  side  had  grown 
quicker.  I  began  in  a  word  to  see.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  began  to  see." 

Mrs.  Adair  did  not  move.  Durrance,  upon  his 
side,  appeared  to  expect  no  answer  or  acknowledg- 
ment. He  spoke  with  the  voice  of  enjoyment  which 
a  man  uses  recounting  difficulties  which  have  ceased 
to  hamper  him,  perplexities  which  have  been  long 
since  unravelled. 

"  I  should  have  definitely  broken  off  our  engage- 
ment, I  suppose,  at  once.  For  I  still  believed,  and 
as  firmly  as  ever,  that  there  must  be  more  than  friend- 
ship on  both  sides.  But  I  had  grown  selfish.  I 
warned  you,  Ethne,  selfishness  was  the  blind  man's 


218  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

particular  fault.  I  waited  and  deferred  the  time  of 
marriage.  I  made  excuses.  I  led  you  to  believe 
that  there  was  a  chance  of  recovery  when  I  knew 
there  was  none.  For  I  hoped,  as  a  man  will,  that 
with  time  your  friendship  might  grow  into  more  than 
friendship.  So  long  as  there  was  a  chance  of  that, 
I  —  Ethne,  I  could  not  let  you  go.  So,  I  listened 
for  some  new  softness  in  your  voice,  some  new  buoy- 
ancy in  your  laughter,  some  new  deep  thrill  of  the 
heart  in  the  music  which  you  played,  longing  for  it 
—  how  much  !  Well,  to-night  I  have  burnt  my  boats. 
I  have  admitted  to  you  that  I  knew  friendship  limited 
your  thoughts  of  me.  I  have  owned  to  you  that 
there  is  no  hope  my  sight  will  be  restored.  I  have 
even  dared  to-night  to  tell  you  what  I  have  kept 
secret  for  so  long,  my  meeting  with  Harry  Feversham 
and  the  peril  he  has  run.  And  why  ?  Because  for 
the  first  time  I  have  heard  to-night  just  those  signs 
for  which  I  waited.  The  new  softness,  the  new  pride, 
in  your  voice,  the  buoyancy  in  your  laughter  —  they 
have  been  audible  to  me  all  this  evening.  The 
restraint  and  the  tension  were  gone  from  your  man- 
ner. And  when  you  played,  it  was  as  though  some 
one  with  just  your  skill  and  knowledge  played,  but 
some  one  who  let  her  heart  speak  resonantly  through 
the  music  as  until  to-night  you  have  never  done. 
Ethne,   Ethne!" 

But  at  that  moment  Ethne  was  in  the  little  enclosed 
garden  whither  she  had  led  Captain  Willoughby  that 
morning.  Here  she  was  private  ;  her  collie  dog  had 
joined  her ;  she  had  reached  the  solitude  and  the 
silence  which  had  become  necessities  to  her.  A  few 
more  words  from  Durrance  and  her  prudence  would 


MRS.    ADAIR   INTERFERES  219 

have  broken  beneath  the  strain.  All  that  pretence 
of  affection  which  during  these  last  months  she  had 
so  sedulously  built  up  about  him  like  a  wall  which  he 
was  never  to  look  over,  would  have  been  struck  down 
and  levelled  to  the  ground.  Durrance,  indeed,  had 
already  looked  over  the  wall,  was  looking  over  it 
with  amazed  eyes  at  this  instant,  but  that  Ethne  did 
not  know,  and  to  hinder  him  from  knowing  it  she 
had  fled.  The  moonlight  slept  in  silver  upon  the 
creek  ;  the  tall  trees  stood  dreaming  to  the  stars ;  the 
lapping  of  the  tide  against  the  bank  was  no  louder 
than  the  music  of  a  river.  She  sat  down  upon  the 
bench  and  strove  to  gather  some  of  the  quietude  of 
that  summer  night  into  her  heart,  and  to  learn  from 
the  growing  things  of  nature  about  her  something  of 
their  patience  and  their  extraordinary  perseverance. 

But  the  occurrences  of  the  day  had  overtaxed  her, 
and  she  could  not.  Only  this  morning,  and  in  this 
very  garden,  the  good  news  had  come  and  she  had 
regained  Harry  Feversham.  For  in  that  way  she 
thought  of  Willoughby's  message.  This  morning  she 
had  regained  him,  and  this  evening  the  bad  news  had 
come  and  she  had  lost  him,  and  most  likely  right  to 
the  very  end  of  mortal  life.  Harry  Feversham  meant 
to  pay  for  his  fault  to  the  uttermost  scruple,  and 
Ethne  cried  out  against  his  thoroughness,  which  he 
had  learned  from  no  other  than  herself.  "  Surely," 
she  thought,  "  he  might  have  been  content.  In  re- 
deeming his  honour  in  the  eyes  of  one  of  the  three 
he  has  done  enough,  he  has  redeemed  it  in  the  eyes 
of  all." 

But  he  had  gone  south  to  join  Colonel  Trench  in 
Omdurman.     Of  that  squalid  and  shadowless  town, 


zzo  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

of  its  hideous  barbarities,  of  the  horrors  of  its  prison- 
house,  Ethne  knew  nothing  at  all.  But  Captain  Wil- 
loughby  had  hinted  enough  to  fill  her  imagination 
with  terrors.  He  had  offered  to  explain  to  her  what 
captivity  in  Omdurman  implied,  and  she  wrung  her 
hands,  as  she  remembered  that  she  had  refused  to 
listen.  What  cruelties  might  not  be  practised  ? 
Even  now,  at  that  very  hour  perhaps,  on  this  night 
of  summer  —  but  she  dared  not  let  her  thoughts  wan- 
der that  way.  .  .  . 

The  lapping  of  the  tide  against  the  banks  was  like 
the  music  of  a  river.  It  brought  to  Ethne's  mind  one 
particular  river  which  had  sung  and  babbled  in  her 
ears  when  five  years  ago  she  had  watched  out  an- 
other summer  night  till  dawn.  Never  had  she  so 
hungered  for  her  own  country  and  the  companion- 
ship of  its  brown  hills  and  streams.  No,  not  even 
this  afternoon,  when  she  had  sat  at  her  window  and 
watched  the  lights  change  upon  the  creek.  Donegal 
had  a  sanctity  for  her,  it  seemed  when  she  dwelled 
in  it  to  set  her  in  a  way  apart  from  and  above  earthly 
taints ;  and  as  her  heart  went  out  in  a  great  longing 
towards  it  now,  a  sudden  fierce  loathing  for  the  con- 
cealments, the  shifts  and  manoeuvres  which  she  had 
practised,  and  still  must  practise,  sprang  up  within 
her.  A  great  weariness  came  upon  her,  too.  But 
she  did  not  change  from  her  fixed  resolve.  Two  lives 
were  not  to  be  spoilt  because  she  lived  in  the  world. 
To-morrow  she  could  gather  up  her  strength  and 
begin  again.  For  Durrance  must  never  know  that 
there  was  another  whom  she  placed  before  him  in 
her  thoughts.  Meanwhile,  however,  Durrance  within 
the  drawing-room  brought  his  confession  to  an  end. 


MRS.    ADAIR    INTERFERES  221 

"  So  you  see,"  he  said,  "  I  could  not  speak  of  Harry 
Feversham  until  to-night.  For  I  was  afraid  that 
what  I  had  to  tell  you  would  hurt  you  very  much.  I 
was  afraid  that  you  still  remembered  him,  in  spite  of 
those  five  years.  I  knew,  of  course,  that  you  were 
my  friend.  But  I  doubted  whether  in  your  heart  you 
were  not  more  than  that  to  him.  To-night,  however, 
I  could  tell  you  without  fear." 

Now  at  all  events  he  expected  an  answer.  Mrs. 
Adair,  still  standing  by  the  window,  heard  him  move 
in  the  shadows. 

"  Ethne  !  "  he  said,  with  some  surprise  in  his  voice  ; 
and  since  again  no  answer  came,  he  rose,  and  walked 
towards  the  chair  in  which  Ethne  had  sat.  Mrs. 
Adair  could  see  him  now.  His  hands  felt  for  and 
grasped  the  back  of  the  chair.  He  bent  over  it,  as 
though  he  thought  Ethne  was  leaning  forward  with 
her  hands  upon  her  knees. 

"  Ethne,"  he  said  again,  and  there  was  in  this  itera- 
tion of  her  name  more  trouble  and  doubt  than  surprise. 
It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Adair  that  he  dreaded  to  find  her 
silently  weeping.  He  was  beginning  to  speculate 
whether  after  all  he  had  been  right  in  his  inference 
from  Ethne's  recapture  of  her  youth  to-night,  whether 
the  shadow  of  Feversham  did  not  after  all  fall  be- 
tween them.  He  leaned  farther  forward,  feeling 
with  his  hand,  and  suddenly  a  string  of  Ethne's  violin 
twanged  loud.  She  had  left  it  lying  on  the  chair,  and 
his  fingers  had  touched  it. 

Durrance  drew  himself  up  straight  and  stood  quite 
motionless  and  silent,  like  a  man  who  had  suffered  a 
shock  and  is  bewildered.  He  passed  his  hand  across 
his   forehead   once  or  twice,  and  then,  without  call- 


222  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

ing  upon  Ethne  again,  he  advanced  to  the  open 
window. 

Mrs.  Adair  did  not  move,  and  she  held  her  breath. 
There  was  just  the  width  of  the  sill  between  them. 
The  moonlight  struck  full  upon  Durrance,  and  she 
saw  a  comprehension  gradually  dawn  in  his  face  that 
some  one  was  standing  close  to  him. 

"  Ethne,"  he  said  a  third  time,  and  now  he  appealed. 

He  stretched  out  a  hand  timidly  and  touched  her 
dress. 

"  It  is  not  Ethne,"  he  said  with  a  start. 

"No,  it  is  not  Ethne,"  Mrs.  Adair  answered  quickly. 
Durrance  drew  back  a  step  from  the  window,  and  for 
a  little  while  was  silent. 

"  Where  has  she  gone  ?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

"  Into  the  garden.  She  ran  across  the  terrace  and 
down  the  steps  very  quickly  and  silently.  I  saw  her 
from  my  chair.     Then  I  heard  you  speaking  alone." 

"  Can  you  see  her  now  in  the  garden  ? " 

"  No ;  she  went  across  the  lawn  towards  the  trees 
and  their  great  shadows.  There  is  only  the  moonlight 
in  the  garden  now." 

Durrance  stepped  across  the  window  sill  and  stood 
by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Adair.  The  last  slip  which 
Ethne  had  made  betrayed  her  inevitably  to  the  man 
who  had  grown  quick.  There  could  be  only  one 
reason  for  her  sudden  unexplained  and  secret  flight. 
He  had  told  her  that  Feversham  had  wandered  south 
from  Wadi  Haifa  into  the  savage  country;  he  had 
spoken  out  his  fears  as  to  Feversham's  fate  without 
reserve,  thinking  that  she  had  forgotten  him,  and 
indeed  rather  inclined  to  blame  her  for  the  callous 
indifference  with  which  she  received  the  news.     The 


MRS.    ADAIR    INTERFERES  223 

callousness  was  a  mere  mask,  and  she  had  fled  because 
she  no  longer  had  the  strength  to  hold  it  up  before  her 
face.  His  first  suspicions  had  been  right.  Feversham 
still  stood  between  Ethne  and  himself  and  held  them 
at  arm's  length. 

"  She  ran  as  though  she  was  in  great  trouble  and 
hardly  knew  what  she  was  doing,"  Mrs.  Adair  con- 
tinued.    "  Did  you  cause  that  trouble  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  so,  from  what  I  heard  you  say." 

Mrs.  Adair  wanted  to  hurt,  and  in  spite  of  Dur- 
rance's  impenetrable  face,  she  felt  that  she  had  suc- 
ceeded. It  was  a  small  sort  of  compensation  for 
the  weeks  of  mortification  which  she  had  endured. 
There  is  something  which  might  be  said  for  Mrs. 
Adair ;  extenuations  might  be  pleaded,  even  if  no  de- 
fence was  made.  For  she  like  Ethne  was  overtaxed 
that  night.  That  calm  pale  face  of  hers  hid  the 
quick  passions  of  the  South,  and  she  had  been 
racked  by  them  to  the  limits  of  endurance.  There 
had  been  something  grotesque,  something  rather  hor- 
rible, in  that  outbreak  and  confession  by  Durrance, 
after  Ethne  had  fled  from  the  room.  He  was  speak- 
ing out  his  heart  to  an  empty  chair.  She  herself  had 
stood  without  the  window  with  a  bitter  longing  that 
he  had  spoken  so  to  her  and  a  bitter  knowledge  that 
he  never  would.  She  was  sunk  deep  in  humiliation. 
The  irony  of  the  position  tortured  her ;  it  was  like  a 
jest  of  grim  selfish  gods  played  off  upon  ineffectual 
mortals  to  their  hurt.  And  at  the  bottom  of  all  the 
thoughts  rankled  that  memory  of  the  extinguished 
lamp,  and  the  low,  hushed  voices  speaking  one  to  the 
other  in  darkness.     Therefore  she  spoke  to  give  pain 


224  THE    FOUR    FEJTHERS 

and  was  glad  that  she  gave  it,  even  though  it  was  to 
the  man  whom  she  coveted. 

"  There's  one  thing  which  I  don't  understand," 
said  Durrance.  "  I  mean  the  change  which  we  both 
noticed  in  Ethne  to-night.  I  mistook  the  cause  of 
it,  that's  evident.  I  was  a  fool.  But  there  must  have 
been  a  cause.  The  gift  of  laughter  had  been  restored 
to  her.  Her  gravity,  her  air  of  calculation,  had  van- 
ished. She  became  just  what  she  was  five  years 
ago." 

"Exactly,"  Mrs.  Adair  answered.  "Just  what 
she  was  before  Mr.  Feversham  disappeared  fr6m 
Ramelton.  You  are  so  quick,  Colonel  Durrance. 
Ethne  had  good  news  of  Mr.  Feversham  this 
morning." 

Durrance  turned  quickly  towards  her,  and  Mrs. 
Adair  felt  a  pleasure  at  his  abrupt  movement.  She 
had  provoked  the  display  of  some  emotion,  and  the 
display  of  emotion  was  preferable  to  his  composure. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  As  sure  as  that  you  gave  her  the  worst  of  news 
to-night,"  she  replied. 

But  Durrance  did  not  need  the  answer.  Ethne 
had  made  another  slip  that  evening,  and  though  un- 
noticed at  the  time,  it  came  back  to  Durrance's  mem- 
ory now.  She  had  declared  that  Feversham  still 
drew  an  allowance  from  his  father.  "  I  heard  it 
only  to-day,"  she  had  said. 

"  Yes,  Ethne  heard  news  of  Feversham  to-day," 
he  said  slowly.  "  Did  she  make  a  mistake  five  years 
ago  ?  There  was  some  wrong  thing  Harry  Fever- 
sham was  supposed  to  have  done.  But  was  there 
really  more  misunderstanding  than  wrong?     Did  she 


MRS.   ADAIR    INTERFERES  225 

misjudge  him  ?     Has  she  to-day  learnt  that  she  mis- 
judged him  ? " 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  know.  It  is  not  very  much. 
But  I  think  it  is  fair  that  you  should  know  it." 

"Wait  a  moment,  please,  Mrs.  Adair,"  said  Dur- 
rance,  sharply.  He  had  put  his  questions  rather  to 
himself  than  to  his  companion,  and  he  was  not  sure 
that  he  wished  her  to  answer  them.  He  walked 
abruptly  away  from  her  and  leaned  upon  the  balus- 
trade with  his  face  towards  the  garden. 

It  seemed  to  him  rather  treacherous  to  allow  Mrs. 
Adair  to  disclose  what  Ethne  herself  evidently  in- 
tended to  conceal.  But  he  knew  why  Ethne  wished 
to  conceal  it.  She  wished  him  never  to  suspect  that 
she  retained  any  love  for  Harry  Feversham.  On  the 
other  hand,  however,  he  did  not  falter  from  his  own 
belief.  Marriage  between  a  man  crippled  like  him- 
self and  a  woman  active  and  vigorous  like  Ethne 
could  never  be  right  unless  both  brought  more  than 
friendship.     He  turned  back  to  Mrs.  Adair. 

"  I  am  no  casuist,"  he  said.  "  But  here  disloyalty 
seems  the  truest  loyalty  of  all.  Tell  me  what  you 
know,  Mrs.  Adair.  Something  might  be  done  per- 
haps for  Feversham.  From  Assouan  or  Suakin 
something  might  be  done.  This  news  —  this  good 
news  came,  I  suppose,  this  afternoon  when  I  was 
at  home." 

"  No,  this  morning  when  you  were  here.  It  was 
brought  by  a  Captain  Willoughby,  who  was  once  an 
officer  in  Mr.  Feversham's  regiment." 

"  He   is    now   Deputy-Governor   of   Suakin,"  said 
Durrance.     "  I  know  the  man.     For  three  years  we 
were  together  in  that  town.     Well  ? " 
■    Q 


226  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  He  sailed  down  from  Kingsbridge.  You  and 
Ethne  were  walking  across  the  lawn  when  he  landed 
from  the  creek.  Ethne  left  you  and  went  forward  to 
meet  him.  I  saw  them  meet,  because  I  happened 
to  be  looking  out  of  this  window  at  the  moment." 

"  Yes,  Ethne  went  forward.  There  was  a  stranger 
whom  she  did  not  know.     I  remember." 

"  They  spoke  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  Ethne 
led  him  towards  the  trees,  at  once,  without  looking 
back —  as  though  she  had  forgotten,"  said  Mrs.  Adair. 
That  little  stab  she  had  not  been  able  to  deny  her- 
self, but  it  evoked  no  sign  of  pain. 

"  As  though  she  had  forgotten  me,  you  mean," 
said  Durrance,  quietly  completing  her  sentence.  "  No 
doubt  she  had." 

"  They  went  together  into  the  little  enclosed  gar- 
den on  the  bank,"  and  Durrance  started  as  she  spoke. 
"  Yes,  you  followed  them,"  continued  Mrs.  Adair, 
curiously.  She  had  been  puzzled  as  to  how  Durrance 
had  missed  them. 

"  They  were  there  then,"  he  said  slowly,  "  on  that 
seat,  in  the  enclosure,  all  the  while." 

Mrs.  Adair  waited  for  a  more  definite  explanation 
of  the  mystery,  but  she  got  none. 

"  Well  ? "  he  asked. 

"They  stayed  there  for  a  long  while.  You  had 
gone  home  across  the  fields  before  they  came  out- 
side into  the  open.  I  was  in  the  garden,  and  indeed 
happened  to  be  actually  upon  the  bank." 

"  So  you  saw  Captain  Willoughby.  Perhaps  you 
spoke  to  him  ?" 

"Yes.  Ethne  introduced  him,  but  she  would  not 
let  him  stay.  She  hurried  him  into  his  boat  and  back 
to  Kingsbridge  at  once." 


MRS.    ADAIR    INTERFERES  227 

"Then  how  do  you  know  Captain  Willoughby 
brought  good  news  of  Harry  Fevershara  ? " 

"  Ethne  told  me  that  they  had  been  talking  of  him. 
Her  manner  and  her  laugh  showed  me  no  less  clearly 
that  the  news  was  good." 

"Yes,"  said  Durrance,  and  he  nodded  his  head  in 
assent.  Captain  Willoughby's  tidings  had  begotten 
that  new  pride  and  buoyancy  in  Ethne  which  he  had 
so  readily  taken  to  himself.  Signs  of  the  necessary 
something  more  than  friendship  —  so  he  had  ac- 
counted them,  and  he  was  right  so  far.  But  it  was 
not  he  who  had  inspired  them.  His  very  penetration 
and  insight  had  led  him  astray.  He  was  silent  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  Mrs.  Adair  searched  his  face  in  the 
moonlight  for  some  evidence  that  he  resented  Ethne's 
secrecy.     But  she  searched  in  vain. 

"And  that  is  all  ?  "  said  Durrance. 

"  Not  quite.  Captain  Willoughby  brought  a  token 
from  Mr.  Feversham.  Ethne  carried  it  back  to  the 
house  in  her  hand.  Her  eyes  were  upon  it  all  the 
way,  her  lips  smiled  at  it.  I  do  not  think  there  is 
anything  half  so  precious  to  her  in  all  the  world." 

"  A  token  ? " 

"  A  little  white  feather,"  said  Mrs.  Adair,  "  all 
soiled  and  speckled  with  dust.  Can  you  read  the 
riddle  of  that  feather  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  Durrance  replied.  He  walked  once  or 
twice  along  the  terrace  and  back,  lost  in  thought. 
Then  he  went  into  the  house  and  fetched  his  cap  from 
the  hall.     He  came  back  to  Mrs.  Adair. 

"  It  was  kind  of  you  to  tell  me  this,"  he  said. 
"  I  want  you  to  add  to  your  kindness.  When  I  was 
in  the  drawing-room  alone  and  you  came  to  the  win- 


228  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

dow,  how  much  did  you  hear  ?  What  were  the  first 
words  ? " 

Mrs.  Adair's  answer  relieved  him  of  a  fear.  Ethne 
had  heard  nothing  whatever  of  his  confession. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "she  moved  to  the  window  to  read 
a  letter  by  the  moonlight.  She  must  have  escaped 
from  the  room  the  moment  she  had  read  it.  Conse- 
quently she  did  not  hear  that  I  had  no  longer  any 
hope  of  recovering  my  sight,  and  that  I  merely  used 
the  pretence  of  a  hope  in  order  to  delay  our  marriage. 
I  am  glad  of  that,  very  glad."  He  shook  hands  with 
Mrs.  Adair,  and  said  good-night.  "You  see,"  he 
added  absently,  "  if  I  hear  that  Harry  Feversham  is 
in  Omdurman,  something  might  perhaps  be  done  — 
from  Suakin  or  Assouan,  something  might  be  done. 
Which  way  did  Ethne  go  ?  " 

"  Over  to  the  water." 

"  She  had  her  dog  with  her,  I  hope." 

"The  dog  followed  her,"  said  Mrs.  Adair. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Durrance.  He  knew  quite  well 
what  comfort  the  dog  would  be  to  Ethne  in  this  bad 
hour,  and  perhaps  he  rather  envied  the  dog.  Mrs. 
Adair  wondered  that  at  a  moment  of  such  distress  to 
him  he  could  still  spare  a  thought  for  so  small  an 
alleviation  of  Ethne's  trouble.  She  watched  him  cross 
the  garden  to  the  stile  in  the  hedge.  He  walked 
steadily  forward  upon  the  path  like  a  man  who  sees. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  gait  or  bearing  to  reveal 
that  the  one  thing  left  to  him  had  that  evening  been 
taken  away. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WEST    AND    EAST 

Durrance  found  his  body-servant  waiting  up  for 
him  when  he  had  come  across  the  fields  to  his  own 
house  of  "  Guessens." 

"  You  can  turn  the  lights  out  and  go  to  bed,"  said 
Durrance,  and  he  walked  through  the  hall  into  his 
study.  The  name  hardly  described  the  room,  for  it 
had  always  been  more  of  a  gunroom  than  a  study. 

He  sat  for  some  while  in  his  chair  and  then  began 
to  walk  gently  about  the  room  in  the  dark.  There 
were  many  cups  and  goblets  scattered  about  the  room, 
which  Durrance  had  won  in  his  past  days.  He  knew 
them  each  one  by  their  shape  and  position,  and  he 
drew  a  kind  of  comfort  from  the  feel  of  them.  He 
took  them  up  one  by  one  and  touched  them  and 
fondled  them,  wondering  whether,  now  that  he  was 
blind,  they  were  kept  as  clean  and  bright  as  they 
used  to  be.  This  one,  a  thin-stemmed  goblet,  he  had 
won"  in  a  regimental  steeple-chase  at  Colchester ;  he 
could  remember  the  day  with  its  clouds  and  grey  sky 
and  the  dull  look  of  the  ploughed  fields  between  the 
hedges.  That  pewter,  which  stood  upon  his  writing 
table  and  which  had  formed  a  convenient  holder  for 
his  pens,  when  pens  had  been  of  use,  he  had  acquired 
very  long  ago  in  his  college  "fours,"  when  he  was  a 
freshman  at  Oxford.     The  hoof  of  a  favourite  horse 

229 


230  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

mounted  in  silver  made  an  ornament  upon  the  mantel- 
piece. His  trophies  made  the  room  a  gigantic  diary  ; 
he  fingered  his  records  of  good  days  gone  by  and 
came  at  last  to  his  guns  and  rifles. 

He  took  them  down  from  their  racks.  They  were 
to  him  much  what  Ethne's  violin  was  to  her  and  had 
stories  for  his  ear  alone.  He  sat  with  a  Remington 
across  his  knee  and  lived  over  again  one  long  hot  day 
in  the  hills  to  the  west  of  Berenice,  during  which  he 
had  stalked  a  lion  across  stony,  open  country,  and 
killed  him  at  three  hundred  yards  just  before  sunset. 
Another  talked  to  him,  too,  of  his  first  ibex  shot  in 
the  Khor  Baraka,  and  of  antelope  stalked  in  the 
mountains  northward  of  Suakin.  There  was  a  little 
Greener  gun  which  he  had  used  upon  midwinter  nights 
in  a  boat  upon  this  very  creek  of  the  Salcombe  estu- 
ary. He  had  brought  down  his  first  mallard  with 
that,  and  he  lifted  it  and  slid  his  left  hand  along  the 
under  side  of  the  barrel  and  felt  the  butt  settle  com- 
fortably into  the  hollow  of  his  shoulder.  But  his 
weapons  began  to  talk  over  loudly  in  his  ears,  even  as 
Ethne's  violin,  in  the  earlier  days  after  Harry  Fever- 
sham  was  gone  and  she  was  left  alone,  had  spoken 
with  too  penetrating  a  note  to  her.  As  he  handled 
the  locks,  and  was  aware  that  he  could  no  longer 
see  the  sights,  the  sum  of  his  losses  was  presented  to 
him  in  a  very  definite  and  incontestable  way. 

He  put  his  guns  away,  and  was  seized  suddenly 
with  a  desire  to  disregard  his  blindness,  to  pretend 
that  it  was  no  hindrance  and  to  pretend  so  hard 
that  it  should  prove  not  to  be  one.  The  desire  grew 
and  shook  him  like  a  passion  and  carried  him  winged 
out  of  the  countries  of  dim  stars  straight  to  the  East 


WEST  AND    EAST  231 

The  smell  of  the  East  and  its  noises  and  the  domes  of 
its  mosques,  the  hot  sun,  the  rabble  in  its  streets,  and 
the  steel-blue  sky  overhead,  caught  at  him  till  he  was 
plucked  from  his  chair  and  set  pacing  restlessly  about 
his  room. 

He  dreamed  himself  to  Port  Said,  and  was  mar- 
shalled in  the  long  procession  of  steamers  down  the 
waterway  of  the  canal.  The  song  of  the  Arabs  coal- 
ing the  ship  was  in  his  ears,  and  so  loud  that  he  could 
see  them  as  they  went  at  night-time  up  and  down  the 
planks  between  the  barges  and  the  deck,  an  endless 
chain  of  naked  figures  monotonously  chanting  and 
lurid  in  the  red  glare  of  the  braziers.  He  travelled 
out  of  the  canal,  past  the  red  headlands  of  the  Sinaitic 
Peninsula,  into  the  chills  of  the  Gulf  of  Suez.  He 
zigzagged  down  the  Red  Sea  while  the  Great  Bear 
swung  northward  low  down  in  the  sky  above  the  rail 
of  the  quarterdeck,  and  the  Southern  Cross  began  to 
blaze  in  the  south ;  he  touched  at  Tor  and  at  Yambo; 
he  saw  the  tall  white  houses  of  Yeddah  lift  themselves 
out  of  the  sea,  and  admired  the  dark  brine-withered 
woodwork  of  their  carved  casements ;  he  walked 
through  the  dusk  of  its  roofed  bazaars  with  the  joy  of 
the  homesick  after  long  years  come  home ;  and  from 
Yeddah  he  crossed  between  the  narrowing  coral-reefs 
into  the  land-locked  harbour  of  Suakin. 

Westward  from  Suakin  stretched  the  desert,  with  all 
that  it  meant  to  this  man  whom  it  had  smitten  and 
cast  out  —  the  quiet  padding  of  the  camels'  feet  in 
sand ;  the  great  rock-cones  rising  sheer  and  abrupt  as 
from  a  rippleless  ocean,  towards  which  you  march  all 
day  and  get  no  nearer ;  the  gorgeous  momentary 
blaze  of  sunset  colours  in  the  west ;  the  rustle  of  the 


23z  THE   FOUR    FEJTHERS 

wind  through  the  short  twilight  when  the  west  is  a 
pure  pale  green  and  the  east  the  darkest  blue ;  and  the 
downward  swoop  of  the  planets  out  of  nothing  to  the 
earth.  The  inheritor  of  the  other  places  dreamed 
himself  back  into  his  inheritance  as  he  tramped  to 
and  fro,  forgetful  of  his  blindness  and  parched  with 
desire  as  with  a  fever  —  until  unexpectedly  he  heard 
the  blackbirds  and  the  swallows  bustling  and  piping 
in  the  garden,  and  knew  that  outside  his  windows  the 
world  was  white  with  dawn. 

He  waked  from  his  dream  at  the  homely  sound. 
There  were  to  be  no  more  journeys  for  him  ;  affliction 
had  caged  him  and  soldered  a  chain  about  his  leg. 
He  felt  his  way  by  the  balustrade  up  the  stairs  to  his 

bed.     He  fell  asleep  as  the  sun  rose. 

******** 

But  at  Dongola,  on  the  great  curve  of  the  Nile 
southwards  of  Wadi  Haifa,  the  sun  was  already  blaz- 
ing and  its  inhabitants  were  awake.  There  was  sport 
prepared  for  them  this  morning  under  the  few  palm 
trees  before  the  house  of  the  Emir  Wad  El  Nejoumi. 
A  white  prisoner  captured  a  week  before  close  to  the 
wells  of  El  Agia  on  the  great  Arbain  road,  by  a  party 
of  Arabs,  had  been  brought  in  during  the  night  and 
now  waited  his  fate  at  the  Emir's  hands.  The  news 
spread  quick  as  a  spark  through  the  town ;  already 
crowds  of  men  and  women  and  children  flocked  to 
this  rare  and  pleasant  spectacle.  In  front  of  the 
palm  trees  an  open  space  stretched  to  the  gateway 
of  the  Emir's  house ;  behind  them  a  slope  of  sand 
descended  flat  and  bare  to  the  river. 

Harry  Feversham  was  standing  under  the  trees, 
guarded  by  four  of  the  Ansar  soldiery.     His  clothes 


WEST  AND    EAST  233 

had  been  stripped  from  him  ;  he  wore  only  a  torn  and 
ragged  jibbeh  upon  his  body  and  a  twist  of  cotton  on 
his  head  to  shield  him  from  the  sun.  His  bare 
shoulders  and  arms  were  scorched  and  blistered. 
His  ankles  were  fettered,  his  wrists  were  bound  with 
a  rope  of  palm  fibre,  an  iron  collar  was  locked  about 
his  neck,  to  which  a  chain  was  attached,  and  this 
chain  one  of  the  soldiers  held.  He  stood  and  smiled 
at  the  mocking  crowd  about  him  and  seemed  well 
pleased,  like  a  lunatic. 

That  was  the  character  which  he  had  assumed. 
If  he  could  sustain  it,  if  he  could  baffle  his  captors, 
so  that  they  were  at  a  loss  whether  he  was  a  man 
really  daft  or  an  agent  with  promises  of  help  and 
arms  to  the  disaffected  tribes  of  Kordof an  —  then 
there  was  a  chance  that  they  might  fear  to  dispose 
of  him  themselves  and  send  him  forward  to  Omdur- 
man.  But  it  was  hard  work.  Inside  the  house  the 
Emir  and  his  counsellors  were  debating  his  destiny ; 
on  the  river-bank  and  within  his  view  a  high  gallows 
stood  out  black  and  most  sinister  against  the  yellow 
sand.  Harry  Feversham  was  very  glad  of  the  chain 
about  his  neck  and  the  fetters  on  his  legs.  They 
helped  him  to  betray  no  panic,  by  assuring  him  of  its 
futility. 

These  hours  of  waiting,  while  the  sun  rose  higher 
and  higher  and  no  one  came  from  the  gateway,  were 
the  worst  he  had  ever  as  yet  endured.  All  through 
that  fortnight  in  Berber  a  hope  of  escape  had  sus- 
tained him,  and  when  that  lantern  shone  upon  him 
from  behind  in  the  ruined  acres,  what  had  to  be  done 
must  be  done  so  quickly  there  was  no  time  for  fear 
or  thought.    Here  there  was  time  and  too  much  of  it 


234  THE    FOUR    FEJTHERS 

He  had  time  to  anticipate  and  foresee.  He  felt 
his  heart  sinking  till  he  was  faint,  just  as  in  those 
distant  days  when  he  had  heard  the  hounds  scuffling 
and  whining  in  a  covert  and  he  himself  had  sat 
shaking  upon  his  horse.  He  glanced  furtively  to- 
wards the  gallows,  and  foresaw  the  vultures  perched 
upon  his  shoulders,  fluttering  about  his  eyes.  But 
the  man  had  grown  during  his  years  of  probation. 
The  fear  of  physical  suffering  was  not  uppermost  in 
his  mind,  nor  even  the  fear  that  he  would  walk  un- 
manfully  to  the  high  gallows,  but  a  greater  dread 
that  if  he  died  now,  here,  at  Dongola,  Ethne  would 
never  take  back  that  fourth  feather,  and  his  strong 
hope  of  the  "afterwards"  would  never  come  to  its  ful- 
filment. He  was  very  glad  of  the  collar  about  his 
neck  and  the  fetters  on  his  legs.  He  summoned  his 
wits  together  and  standing  there  alone,  without  a 
companion  to  share  his  miseries,  laughed  and  scraped 
and  grimaced  at  his  tormentors. 

An  old  hag  danced  and  gesticulated  before  him, 
singing  the  while  a  monotonous  song.  The  gestures 
were  pantomimic  and  menaced  him  with  abominable 
mutilations ;  the  words  described  in  simple  and  unex- 
purgated  language  the  grievous  death  agonies  which 
immediately  awaited  him,  and  the  eternity  of  torture  in 
hell  which  he  would  subsequently  suffer.  Feversham 
understood  and  inwardly  shuddered,  but  he  only  imi- 
tated her  gestures  and  nodded  and  mowed  at  her  as 
though  she  was  singing  to  him  of  Paradise.  Others, 
taking  their  war-trumpets,  placed  the  mouths  against 
the  prisoner's  ears  and  blew  with  all  their  might. 

"  Do  you  hear,  Kaffir  ? "  cried  a  child,  dancing 
with  delight  before  him.  "  Do  you  hear  our  ombey- 
ehs  ?     Blow  louder  !     Blow  louder  !  " 


WEST  AND   EAST  235 

But  the  prisoner  only  clapped  his  hands,  and  cried 
out  that  the  music  was  good. 

Finally  there  came  to  the  group  a  tall  warrior  with 
a  long,  heavy  spear.  A  cry  was  raised  at  his  ap- 
proach, and  a  space  was  cleared.  He  stood  before 
the  captive  and  poised  his  spear,  swinging  it  back- 
ward and  forward,  to  make  his  arm  supple  before  he 
thrust,  like  a  bowler  before  he  delivers  a  ball  at  a 
cricket  match.  Feversham  glanced  wildly  about  him, 
and  seeing  no  escape,  suddenly  flung  out  his  breast 
to  meet  the  blow.  But  the  spear  never  reached  him. 
For  as  the  warrior  lunged  from  the  shoulder,  one  of 
the  four  guards  jerked  the  neck  chain  violently  from 
behind,  and  the  prisoner  was  flung,  half  throttled, 
upon  his  back.  Three  times,  and  each  time  to  a  roar 
of  delight,  this  pastime  was  repeated,  and  then  a  sol- 
dier appeared  in  the  gateway  of  Nejoumi's  house. 

"  Bring  him  in ! "  he  cried  ;  and  followed  by  the 
curses  and  threats  of  the  crowd,  the  prisoner  was 
dragged  under  the  arch  across  a  courtyard  into  a 
dark  room. 

For  a  few  moments  Feversham  could  see  nothing. 
Then  his  eyes  began  to  adapt  themselves  to  the 
gloom,  and  he  distinguished  a  tall,  bearded  man,  who 
sat  upon  an  angareb,  the  native  bedstead  of  the  Sou- 
dan, and  two  others,  who  squatted  beside  him  on  the 
ground.     The  man  on  the  angareb  was  the  Emir. 

"You  are  a  spy  of  the  Government  from  Wadi 
Haifa,"  he  said. 

"  No,  I  am  a  musician,"  returned  the  prisoner,  and 
he  laughed  happily,  like  a  man  that  has  made  a  jest. 

Nejoumi  made  a  sign,  and  an  instrument  with 
many   broken    strings   was   handed   to   the   captive. 


23 6  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Feversham  seated  himself  upon  the  ground,  and  with 
slow,  fumbling  fingers,  breathing  hard  as  he  bent 
over  the  zither,  he  began  to  elicit  a  wavering  melody. 
It  was  the  melody  to  which  Durrance  had  listened  in 
the  street  of  Tewfikieh  on  the  eve  of  his  last  journey 
into  the  desert ;  and  which  Ethne  Eustace  had  played 
only  the  night  before  in  the  quiet  drawing-room  at 
Southpool.  It  was  the  only  melody  which  Fever- 
sham  knew.  When  he  had  done  Nejoumi  began 
again. 

"You  are  a  spy." 

"  I  have  told  you  the  truth,"  answered  Feversham, 
stubbornly,  and  Nejoumi  took  a  different  tone.  He 
called  for  food,  and  the  raw  liver  of  a  camel,  covered 
with  salt  and  red  pepper,  was  placed  before  Fever- 
sham. Seldom  has  a  man  had  smaller  inclination  to 
eat,  but  Feversham  ate,  none  the  less,  even  of  that 
unattractive  dish,  knowing  well  that  reluctance  would 
be  construed  as  fear,  and  that  the  signs  of  fear  might 
condemn  him  to  death.  And,  while  he  ate,  Nejoumi 
questioned  him,  in  the  silkiest  voice,  about  the  forti- 
fications of  Cairo  and  the  strength  of  the  garrison  at 
Assouan,  and  the  rumours  of  dissension  between  the 
Khedive  and  the  Sirdar. 

But  to  each  question  Feversham  replied  :  — 
"  How  should  a  Greek  know  of  these  matters  ?  " 
Nejoumi  rose  from  his  angareb  and  roughly  gave 
an  order.  The  soldiers  seized  upon  Feversham  and 
dragged  him  out  again  into  the  sunlight.  They  poured 
water  upon  the  palm-rope  which  bound  his  wrists,  so 
that  the  thongs  swelled  and  bit  into  his  flesh. 

"  Speak,  Kaffir.    You  carry  promises  to  Kordofan." 
Feversham  was  silent.     He  clung  doggedly  to  the 


WEST  AND    EAST 


237 


plan  over  which  he  had  so  long  and  so  carefully  pon- 
dered. He  could  not  improve  upon  it,  he  was  sure, 
by  any  alteration  suggested  by  fear,  at  a  moment 
when  he  could  not  think  clearly.  A  rope  was  flung 
about  his  neck,  and  he  was  pushed  and  driven 
beneath  the  gallows. 

"  Speak,  Kaffir,"  said  Nejoumi ;  "  so  shall  you  escape 
death." 

Feversham  smiled  and  grimaced,  and  shook  his 
head  loosely  from  side  to  side.  It  was  astonishing  to 
him  that  he  could  do  it,  that  he  did  not  fall  down 
upon  his  knees  and  beg  for  mercy.  It  was  still  more 
astonishing  to  him  that  he  felt  no  temptation  so  to 
demean  himself.  He  wondered  whether  the  oft  re- 
peated story  was  true,  that  criminals  in  English  pris- 
ons went  quietly  and  with  dignity  to  the  scaffold, 
because  they  had  been  drugged.  For  without  drugs 
he  seemed  to  be  behaving  with  no  less  dignity  him- 
self. His  heart  was  beating  very  fast,  but  it  was 
with  a  sort  of  excitement.  He  did  not  even  think  of 
Ethne  at  that  moment ;  and  certainly  the  great  dread 
that  his  strong  hope  would  never  be  fulfilled  did  not 
trouble  him  at  all.  He  had  his  allotted  part  to  play, 
and  he  just  played  it;  and  that  was  all. 

Nejoumi  looked  at  him  sourly  for  a  moment.  He 
turned  to  the  men  who  stood  ready  to  draw  away 
from  Feversham1  the  angareb  on  which  he  was 
placed  :  — 

"To-morrow,"  said  he,  "the  Kaffir  shall  go  to 
Omdurman." 

Feversham  began  to  feel  then  that  the  rope  of 
palm  fibre  tortured  his  wrists. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ETHNE    MAKES   ANOTHER    SLIP 

Mrs.  Adair  speculated  with  some  uneasiness  upon 
the  consequences  of  the  disclosures  which  she  had 
made  to  Durrance.  She  was  in  doubt  as  to  the  course 
which  he  would  take.  It  seemed  possible  that  he 
might  frankly  tell  Ethne  of  the  mistake  which  he  had 
made.  He  might  admit  that  he  had  discovered  the 
unreality  of  her  affection  for  him,  and  the  reality  of 
her  love  for  Feversham ;  and  if  he  made  that  admis- 
sion, however  carefully  he  tried  to  conceal  her  share 
in  his  discovery,  he  would  hardly  succeed.  She  would 
have  to  face  Ethne,  and  she  dreaded  the  moment 
when  her  companion's  frank  eyes  would  rest  quietly 
upon  hers  and  her  lips  demand  an  explanation.  It 
was  consequently  a  relief  to  her  at  first  that  no  out- 
ward change  was  visible  in  the  relations  of  Ethne 
and  Durrance.  They  met  and  spoke  as  though  that 
day  on  which  Willoughby  had  landed  at  the  garden, 
and  the  evening  when  Ethne  had  played  the  Musoline 
Overture  upon  the  violin,  had  been  blotted  from  their 
experience.  Mrs.  Adair  was  relieved  at  first,  but  when 
the  sense  of  personal  danger  passed  from  her,  and  she 
saw  that  her  interference  had  been  apparently  without 
effect,  she  began  to  be  puzzled.  A  little  while,  and  she 
was  both  angry  and  disappointed. 

Durrance,    indeed,    quickly    made    up    his    mind. 

238 


ETHNE    MAKES   ANOTHER    SLIP  239 

Ethne  wished  him  not  to  know ;  it  was  some  consola- 
tion to  her  in  her  distress  to  believe  that  she  had 
brought  happiness  to  this  one  man  whose  friend  she 
genuinely  was.  And  of  that  consolation  Durrance 
was  aware.  He  saw  no  reason  to  destroy  it  —  for  the 
present.  He  must  know  certainly  whether  a  misun- 
derstanding or  an  irreparable  breach  separated  Ethne 
from  Feversham  before  he  took  the  steps  he  had  in 
mind.  He  must  have  sure  knowledge,  too,  of  Harry 
Feversham's  fate.  Therefore  he  pretended  to  know 
nothing ;  he  abandoned  even  his  habit  of  attention 
and  scrutiny,  since  for  these  there  was  no  longer  any 
need ;  he  forced  himself  to  a  display  of  contentment ; 
he  made  light  of  his  misfortune,  and  professed  to  find 
in  Ethne's  company  more  than  its  compensation. 

"You  see,"  he  said  to  her,  "one  can  get  used  to 
blindness  and  take  it  as  the  natural  thing.  But  one 
does  not  get  used  to  you,  Ethne.  Each  time  one 
meets  you,  one  discovers  something  new  and  fresh  to 
delight  one.  Besides,  there  is  always  the  possibility 
of  a  cure." 

He  had  his  reward,  for  Ethne  understood  that  he 
had  laid  aside  his  suspicions,  and  she  was  able  to  set 
off  his  indefatigable  cheerfulness  against  her  own 
misery.  And  her  misery  was  great.  If  for  one  day 
she  had  recaptured  the  lightness  of  heart  which  had 
been  hers  before  the  three  white  feathers  came  to 
Ramelton,  she  had  now  recaptured  something  of  the 
grief  which  followed  upon  their  coming.  A  differ- 
ence there  was,  of  course.  Her  pride  was  restored, 
and  she  had  a  faint  hope  born  of  Durrance's  words 
that  Harry  after  all  might  perhaps  be  rescued.  But 
she  knew  again  the  long  and  sleepless  nights  and  the 


240  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

dull  hot  misery  of  the  head  as  she  waited  for  the  grey 
of  the  morning.  For  she  could  no  longer  pretend  to 
herself  that  she  looked  upon  Harry  Feversham  as 
a  friend  who  was  dead.  He  was  living,  and  in  what 
straits  she  dreaded  to  think,  and  yet  thirsted  to  know. 
At  rare  times,  indeed,  her  impatience  got  the  better 
of  her  will. 

"  I  suppose  that  escape  is  possible  from  Omdur- 
man,"  she  said  one  day,  constraining  her  voice  to  an 
accent  of  indifference. 

"  Possible  ?  Yes,  I  think  so,"  Durrance  answered 
cheerfully.  "  Of  course  it  is  difficult  and  would  in 
any  case  take  time.  Attempts,  for  instance,  have 
been  made  to  get  Trench  out  and  others,  but  the 
attempts  have  not  yet  succeeded.  The  difficulty  is 
the  go-between." 

Ethne  looked  quickly  at  Durrance. 

"  The  go-between  ? "  she  asked,  and  then  she  said, 
"I  think  I  begin  to  understand,"  and  pulled  herself 
up  abruptly.  "  You  mean  the  Arab  who  can  come 
and  go  between  Omdurman  and  the  Egyptian  fron- 
tier ? " 

"Yes.  He  is  usually  some  Dervish  pedlar  or 
merchant  trading  with  the  tribes  of  the  Soudan,  who 
slips  into  Wadi  Haifa  or  Assouan  or  Suakin  and 
undertakes  the  work.  Of  course  his  risk  is  great. 
He  would  have  short  shrift  in  Omdurman  if  his  busi- 
ness were  detected.  So  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  he  shirks  the  danger  at  the  last  moment.  As 
often  as  not,  too,  he  is  a  rogue.  You  make  your 
arrangements  with  him  in  Egypt,  and  hand  him  over 
the  necessary  money.  In  six  months  or  a  year  he 
comes  back  alone,  with  a  story  of  excuses.     It  was 


ETHNE    MAKES   ANOTHER    SLIP  241 

summer,  and  the  season  unfavourable  for  an  escape. 
Or  the  prisoners  were  more  strictly  guarded.  Or  he 
himself  was  suspected.  And  he  needs  more  money. 
His  tale  may  be  true,  and  you  give  him  more  money; 
and  he  comes  back  again,  and  again  he  comes  back 
alone." 

Ethne  nodded  her  head. 

"  Exactly." 

Durrance  had  unconsciously  explained  to  her  a 
point  which  till  now  she  had  not  understood.  She 
was  quite  sure  that  Harry  Feversham  aimed  in  some 
way  at  bringing  help  to  Colonel  Trench,  but  in  what 
way  his  own  capture  was  to  serve  that  aim  she  could 
not  determine.  Now  she  understood :  he  was  to  be 
his  own  go-between,  and  her  hopes  drew  strength 
from  this  piece  of  new  knowledge.  For  it  was  likely 
that  he  had  laid  his  plans  with  care.  He  would  be 
very  anxious  that  the  second  feather  should  come 
back  to  her,  and  if  he  could  fetch  Trench  safely  out 
of  Omdurman,  he  would  not  himself  remain  behind. 

Ethne  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  They  were 
sitting  on  the  terrace,  and  the  sunset  was  red  upon 
the  water  of  the  creek. 

"  Life  would  not  be  easy,  I  suppose,  in  the  prison 
of  Omdurman,"  she  said,  and  again  she  forced  her- 
self to  indifference. 

"  Easy  !  "  exclaimed  Durrance  ;  "  no,  it  would  not 
be  easy.  A  hovel  crowded  with  Arabs,  without  light 
or  air,  and  the  roof  perhaps  two  feet  above  your  head, 
into  which  you  were  locked  up  from  sundown  to 
morning ;  very  likely  the  prisoners  would  have  to 
stand  all  night  in  that  foul  den,  so  closely  packed 
would  they  be.     Imagine  it,  even  here  in  England,  on 

R 


242  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

an  evening  like  this !  Think  what  it  would  be  on  an 
August  night  in  the  Soudan  !  Especially  if  you  had 
memories,  say,  of  a  place  like  this,  to  make  the  tor- 
ture worse." 

Ethne  looked  out  across  that  cool  garden.  At 
this  very  moment  Harry  Feversham  might  be  strug- 
gling for  breath  in  that  dark  and  noisome  hovel,  dry 
of  throat  and  fevered  with  the  heat,  with  a  vision 
before  his  eyes  of  the  grass  slopes  of  Ramelton  and 
with  the  music  of  the  Lennon  River  liquid  in  his  ears. 

"  One  would  pray  for  death,"  said  Ethne,  slowly, 
"  unless  —  "  She  was  on  the  point  of  adding  "  unless 
one  went  there  deliberately  with  a  fixed  thing  to  do," 
but  she  cut  the  sentence  short.  Durrance  carried 
it  on :  — 

"  Unless  there  was  a  chance  of  escape,"  he  said. 
"  And  there  is  a  chance  —  if  Feversham  is  in  Omdur- 
man." 

He  was  afraid  that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  say 
too  much  about  the  horrors  of  the  prison  in  Omdur- 
man,  and  he  added:  "Of  course,  what  I  have  described 
to  you  is  mere  hearsay  and  not  to  be  trusted.  We 
have  no  knowledge.  Prisoners  may  not  have  such 
bad  times  as  we  think ; "  and  thereupon  he  let  the 
subject  drop.  Nor  did  Ethne  mention  it  again.  It 
occurred  to  her  at  times  to  wonder  in  what  way  Dur- 
rance had  understood  her  abrupt  disappearance  from 
the  drawing-room  on  the  night  when  he  had  told  her 
of  his  meeting  with  Harry  Feversham.  But  he  never 
referred  to  it  himself,  and  she  thought  it  wise  to  imi- 
tate his  example.  The  noticeable  change  in  his 
manner,  the  absence  of  that  caution  which  had  so 
distressed  her,  allayed  her  fears.     It  seemed  that  he 


ETHNE    MAKES   ANOTHER    SLIP  243 

had  found  for  himself  some  perfectly  simple  and 
natural  explanation.  At  times,  too,  she  asked  herself 
why  Durrance  had  told  her  of  that  meeting  in  Wadi 
Haifa,  and  of  Feversham's  subsequent  departure  to 
the  south.  But  for  that  she  found  an  explanation  — 
a  strange  explanation,  perhaps,  but  it  was  simple 
enough  and  satisfactory  to  her.  She  believed  that 
the  news  was  a  message  of  which  Durrance  was  only 
the  instrument.  It  was  meant  for  her  ears,  and  for 
her  comprehension  alone,  and  Durrance  was  bound 
to  convey  it  to  her  by  the  will  of  a  power  above 
him.  His  real  reason  she  had  not  stayed  to 
hear. 

During  the  month  of  September,  then,  they  kept 
up  the  pretence.  Every  morning  when  Durrance 
was  in  Devonshire  he  would  come  across  the  fields 
to  Ethne  at  The  Pool,  and  Mrs.  Adair,  watching  them 
as  they  talked  and  laughed  without  a  shadow  of 
embarrassment  or  estrangement,  grew  more  angry, 
and  found  it  more  difficult  to  hold  her  peace  and  let 
the  pretence  go  on.  It  was  a  month  of  strain  and 
tension  to  all  three,  and  not  one  of  them  but  ex- 
perienced a  great  relief  when  Durrance  visited  his 
oculist  in  London.  And  those  visits  increased  in  num- 
ber, and  lengthened  in  duration.  Even  Ethne  was 
grateful  for  them.  She  could  throw  off  the  mask 
for  a  little  while ;  she  had  an  opportunity  to  be  tired ; 
she  had  solitude  wherein  to  gain  strength  to  resume 
her  high  spirits  upon  Durrance's  return.  There  came 
hours  when  despair  seized  hold  of  her.  "  Shall  I  be 
able  to  keep  up  the  pretence  when  we  are  married, 
when  we  are  always  together  ? "  she  asked  herself. 
But  she  thrust  the  question  back  unanswered  ;  she 


244  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

dared  not  look  forward,  lest  even  now  her  strength 
should  fail  her. 

After  the  third  visit  Durrance  said  to  her :  — 

"  Do  you  remember  that  I  once  mentioned  a  fa- 
mous oculist  at  Wiesbaden  ?  It  seems  advisable  that 
I  should  go  to  him." 

"  You  are  recommended  to  go  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  to  go  alone." 

Ethne  looked  up  at  him  with  a  shrewd,  quick 
glance. 

"  You  think  that  I  should  be  dull  at  Wiesbaden," 
she  said.  "  There  is  no  fear  of  that.  I  can  rout  out 
some  relative  to  go  with  me." 

"  No  ;  it  is  on  my  own  account,"  answered  Dur- 
rance. "  I  shall  perhaps  have  to  go  into  a  home.  It 
is  better  to  be  quite  quiet  and  to  see  no  one  for  a 
time." 

"You  are  sure?"  Ethne  ask^d.  "  It  would  hurt 
me  if  I  thought  you  proposed  this  plan  because  you 
felt  I  would  be  happier  at  Glenalla." 

"  No,  that  is  not  the  reason,"  Durrance  answered, 
and  he  answered  quite  truthfully.  He  felt  it  necessary 
for  both  of  them  that  they  should  separate.  He,  no 
less  than  Ethne,  suffered  under  the  tyranny  of  per- 
petual simulation.  It  was  only  because  he  knew  how 
much  store  she  set  upon  carrying  out  her  resolve  that 
two  lives  should  not  be  spoilt  because  of  her,  that  he 
was  able  to  hinder  himself  from  crying  out  that  he 
knew  the  truth. 

"  I  am  returning  to  London  next  week,"  he  added, 
"  and  when  I  come  back  I  shall  be  in  a  position  to 
tell  you  whether  I  am  to  go  to  Wiesbaden  or  not." 

Durrance  had  reason  to  be  glad  that  he  had  men- 


ETHNE    MAKES   ANOTHER    SLIP  245 

tioned  his  plan  before  the  arrival  of  Calder's  telegram 
from  Wadi  Haifa.  Ethne  was  unable  to  connect  his 
departure  from  her  with  the  receipt  of  any  news 
about  Feversham.  The  telegram  came  one  after- 
noon, and  Durrance  took  it  across  to  The  Pool  in  the 
evening  and  showed  it  to  Ethne.  There  were  only 
four  words  to  the  telegram  :  — 

"  Feversham  imprisoned  at  Omdurman." 
Durrance,  with  one  of  the  new  instincts  of  delicacy 
which  had  been  born  in  him  lately  by  reason  of  his 
sufferings  and  the  habit  of  thought,  had  moved  away 
from  Ethne's  side  as  soon  as  he  had  given  it  to  her, 
and  had  joined  Mrs.  Adair,  who  was  reading  a  book 
in  the  drawing-room.  He  had  folded  up  the  tele- 
gram, besides,  so  that  by  the  time  Ethne  had  un- 
folded it  and  saw  the  words,  she  was  alone  upon  the 
terrace.  She  remembered  what  Durrance  had  said 
to  her  about  the  prison,  and  her  imagination  enlarged 
upon  his  words.  The  quiet  of  a  September  evening 
was  upon  the  fields,  a  light  mist  rose  from  the  creek 
and  crept  over  the  garden  bank  across  the  lawn. 
Already  the  prison  doors  were  shut  in  that  hot 
country  at  the  junction  of  the  Niles.  "He  is  to  pay 
for  his  fault  ten  times  over,  then,"  she  cried,  in  revolt 
against  the  disproportion.  "And  the  fault  was  his 
father's  and  mine  too  more  than  his  own.  For 
neither  of  us  understood." 

She  blamed  herself  for  the  gift  of  that  fourth 
feather.  She  leaned  upon  the  stone  balustrade  with 
her  eyes  shut,  wondering  whether  Harry  would  out- 
live this  night,  whether  he  was  still  alive  to  outlive  it. 
The  very  coolness  of  the  stones  on  which,  her  hands 
pressed  became  the  bitterest  of  reproaches. 


246  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  Something  can  now  be  done." 

Durrance  was  coming  from  the  window  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  spoke  as  he  came,  to  warn  her  of 
his  approach.  "  He  was  and  is  my  friend  ;  I  cannot 
leave  him  there.  I  shall  write  to-night  to  Calder. 
Money  will  not  be  spared.  He  is  my  friend,  Ethne. 
You  will  see.  From  Suakin  or  from  Assouan  some- 
thing will  be  done." 

He  put  all  the  help  to  be  offered  to  the  credit  of 
his  own  friendship.  Ethne  was  not  to  believe  that 
he  imagined  she  had  any  further  interest  in  Harry 
Feversham. 

She  turned  to  him  suddenly,  almost  interrupting 
him. 

"  Major  Castleton  is  dead  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Castleton  ? "  he  exclaimed.  "  There  was  a  Castle- 
ton in  Feversham's  regiment.     Is  that  the  man  ?  " 

"  Yes.     He  is  dead  ?  " 

"  He  was  killed  at  Tamai." 

"  You  are  sure  —  quite  sure  ?  " 

"  He  was  within  the  square  of  the  Second  Brigade 
on  the  edge  of  the  great  gulley  when  Osman  Digna's 
men  sprang  out  of  the  earth  and  broke  through.  I 
was  in  that  square,  too.     I  saw  Castleton  killed." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Ethne. 

She  spoke  quite  simply  and  distinctly.  The  first 
feather  had  been  brought  back  by  Captain  Wil- 
loughby.  It  was  just  possible  that  Colonel  Trench 
might  bring  back  the  second.  Harry  Feversham 
had  succeeded  once  under  great  difficulties,  in  the 
face  of  great  peril.  The  peril  was  greater  now,  the 
difficulties  more  arduous  to  overcome ;  that  she  clearly 
understood.      But  she  took  the  one  success  as  an 


ETHNE    MAKES   ANOTHER    SLIP  247 

augury  that  another  might  follow  it.  Feversham 
would  have  laid  his  plans  with  care ;  he  had  money 
wherewith  to  carry  them  out ;  and,  besides,  she  was 
a  woman  of  strong  faith.  But  she  was  relieved  to 
know  that  the  sender  of  the  third  feather  could  never 
be  approached.  Moreover,  she  hated  him,  and  there 
was  an  end  of  the  matter. 

Durrance  was  startled.  He  was  a  soldier  of  a 
type  not  so  rare  as  the  makers  of  war  stories  wish 
their  readers  to  believe.  Hector  of  Troy  was  his 
ancestor ;  he  was  neither  hysterical  in  his  language 
nor  vindictive  in  his  acts ;  he  was  not  an  elderly 
schoolboy  with  a  taste  for  loud  talk,  but  a  quiet  man 
who  did  his  work  without  noise,  who  could  be  stern 
when  occasion  needed  and  of  an  unflinching  severity, 
but  whose  nature  was  gentle  and  compassionate. 
And  this  barbaric  utterance  of  Ethne  Eustace  he  did 
not  understand. 

"You  disliked  Major  Castleton  so  much?"  he 
exclaimed. 

"  I  never  knew  him." 

"  Yet  you  are  glad  that  he  is  dead  ?  " 

"I  am  quite  glad,"  said  Ethne,  stubbornly. 

She  made  another  slip  when  she  spoke  thus  of 
Major  Castleton,  and  Durrance  did  not  pass  it  by 
unnoticed.  He  remembered  it,  and  thought  it  over  in 
his  gun-room  at  Guessens.  It  added  something  to 
the  explanation  which  he  was  building  up  of  Harry 
Feversham's  disgrace  and  disappearance.  The  story 
was  gradually  becoming  clear  to  his  sharpened  wits. 
Captain  Willoughby's  visit  and  the  token  he  had 
brought  had  given  him  the  clue.  A  white  feather 
could  mean  nothing  but  an  accusation  of  cowardice. 


248  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Durrance  could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever 
detected  any  signs  of  cowardice  in  Harry  Feversham, 
and  the  charge  startled  him  perpetually  into  incre- 
dulity. 

But  the  fact  remained.  Something  had  happened 
on  the  night  of  the  ball  at  Lennon  House,  and  from 
that  date  Harry  had  been  an  outcast.  Suppose  that 
a  white  feather  had  been  forwarded  to  Lennon  House, 
and  had  been  opened  in  Ethne's  presence  ?  Or  more 
than  one  white  feather  ?  Ethne  had  come  back  from 
her  long  talk  with  Willoughby  holding  that  white 
feather  as  though  there  was  nothing  so  precious  in 
all  the  world. 

So  much  Mrs.  Adair  had  told  him. 

It  followed,  then,  that  the  cowardice  was  atoned,  or 
in  one  particular  atoned.  Ethne's  recapture  of  her 
youth  pointed  inevitably  to  that  conclusion.  She  treas- 
ured the  feather  because  it  was  no  longer  a  symbol 
of  cowardice  but  a  symbol  of  cowardice  atoned. 

But  Harry  Feversham  had  not  returned,  he  still 
slunk  in  the  world's  by-ways.  Willoughby,  then,  was 
not  the  only  man  who  had  brought  the  accusation ; 
there  were  others  —  two  others.  One  of  the  two 
Durrance  had  long  since  identified.  When  Durrance 
had  suggested  that  Harry  might  be  taken  to  Omdur- 
man,  Ethne  had  at  once  replied,  "  Colonel  Trench  is 
in  Omdurman."  She  needed  no  explanation  of 
Harry's  disappearance  from  Wadi  Haifa  into  the 
southern  Soudan.  It  was  deliberate  ;  he  had  gone  out 
to  be  captured,  to  be  taken  to  Omdurman.  Moreover, 
Ethne  had  spoken  of  the  untrustworthiness  of  the  go- 
between,  and  there  again  had  helped  Durrance  in  his 
conjectures.     There  was  some  obligation  upon  Fever- 


ETHNE    MAKES   ANOTHER    SLIP  249 

sham  to  come  to  Trench's  help.  Suppose  that 
Feversham  had  laid  his  plans  of  rescue,  and  had 
ventured  out  into  the  desert  that  he  might  be  his  own 
go-between.  It  followed  that  a  second  feather  had 
been  sent  to  Ramelton,  and  that  Trench  had  sent  it. 

To-night  Durrance  was  able  to  join  Major  Castleton 
to  Trench  and  Willoughby.  Ethne's  satisfaction  at 
the  death  of  a  man  whom  she  did  not  know  could 
mean  but  the  one  thing.  There  would  be  the  same 
obligation  resting  upon  Feversham  with  regard  to 
Major  Castleton  if  he  lived.  It  seemed  likely  that  a 
third  feather  had  come  to  Lennon  House,  and  that 
Major  Castleton  had  sent  it. 

Durrance  pondered  over  the  solution  of  the  problem, 
and  more  and  more  he  found  it  plausible.  There  was 
one  man  who  could  have  told  him  the  truth  and  who 
had  refused  to  tell  it,  who  would  no  doubt  still  refuse 
to  tell  it.  But  that  one  man's  help  Durrance  in- 
tended to  enlist,  and  to  this  end  he  must  come  with 
the  story  pat  upon  his  lips  and  no  request  for  infor- 
mation. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  think  that  after  my  next  visit  to 
London  I  can  pay  a  visit  to  Lieutenant  Sutch." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

DURRANCE    LETS   HIS   CIGAR   GO   OUT 

Captain  Willoughby  was  known  at  his  club 
for  a  bore.  He  was  a  determined  raconteur  of 
pointless  stories  about  people  with  whom  not  one  of 
his  audience  was  acquainted.  And  there  was  no 
deterring  him,  for  he  did  not  listen,  he  only  talked. 
He  took  the  most  savage  snub  with  a  vacant  and 
amicable  face  ;  and,  wrapped  in  his  own  dull  thoughts, 
he  continued  his  copious  monologue.  In  the  smok- 
ing-room or  at  the  supper-table  he  crushed  conversa- 
tion flat  as  a  steam-roller  crushes  a  road.  He  was 
quite  irresistible.  Trite  anecdotes  were  sandwiched 
between  aphorisms  of  the  copybook ;  and  whether 
anecdote  or  aphorism,  all  was  delivered  with  the  air 
of  a  man  surprised  by  his  own  profundity.  If  you 
waited  long  enough,  you  had  no  longer  the  will  power 
to  run  away,  you  sat  caught  in  a  web  of  sheer  dul- 
ness.  Only  those,  however,  who  did  not  know  him 
waited  long  enough  ;  the  rest  of  his  fellow-members 
at  his  appearance  straightway  rose  and  fled. 

It  happened,  therefore,  that  within  half  an  hour  of 
his  entrance  to  his  club,  he  usually  had  one  large  cor- 
ner of  the  room  entirely  to  himself ;  and  that  particu- 
lar corner  up  to  the  moment  of  his  entrance  had  been 
the  most  frequented.  For  he  made  it  a  rule  to  choose 
the  largest  group  as  his  audience.     He  was  sitting  in 

250 


DURRANCE    LETS   HIS    CIGAR    GO    OUT    251 

this  solitary  state  one  afternoon  early  in  October, 
when  the  waiter  approached  him  and  handed  to 
him  a  card. 

Captain  Willoughby  took  it  with  alacrity,  for  he 
desired  company,  and  his  acquaintances  had  all  left 
the  club  to  fulfil  the  most  pressing  and  imperative  en- 
gagements. But  as  he  read  the  card  his  countenance 
fell.  "  Colonel  Durrance  !  "  he  said,  and  scratched  his 
head  thoughtfully.  Durrance  had  never  in  his  life 
paid  him  a  friendly  visit  before,  and  why  should  he 
go  out  of  his  way  to  do  so  now  ?  It  looked  as  if  Dur- 
rance had  somehow  got  wind  of  his  journey  to  Kings- 
bridge. 

"  Does  Colonel  Durrance  know  that  I  am  in  the 
club  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  waiter. 

"  Very  well.     Show  him  in." 

Durrance  had,  no  doubt  come  to  ask  questions,  and 
diplomacy  would  be  needed  to  elude  them.  Captain 
Willoughby  had  no  mind  to  meddle  any  further  in 
the  affairs  of  Miss  Ethne  Eustace.  Feversham  and 
Durrance  must  fight  their  battle  without  his  interven- 
tion. He  did  not  distrust  his  powers  of  diplomacy, 
but  he  was  not  anxious  to  exert  them  in  this  particu- 
lar case,  and  he  looked  suspiciously  at  Durrance  as 
he  entered  the  room.  Durrance,  however,  had  appar- 
ently no  questions  to  ask.  Willoughby  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  crossing  the  room,  guided  his  visitor  over  to 
his  deserted  corner. 

"  Will  you  smoke  ?  "  he  said,  and  checked  himself. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Oh,  I'll  smoke,"  Durrance  answered.  "It's  not 
quite  true  that  a  man  can't  enjoy  his  tobacco  without 


252  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

seeing  the  smoke  of  it.  If  I  let  my  cigar  out,  I 
should  know  at  once.  But  you  will  see,  I  shall  not 
let  it  out."  He  lighted  his  cigar  with  deliberation 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"  I  am  lucky  to  find  you,  Willoughby,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  for  I  am  only  in  town  for  to-day.  I  come 
up  every  now  and  then  from  Devonshire  to  see  my 
oculist,  and  I  was  very  anxious  to  meet  you  if  I  could. 
On  my  last  visit  Mather  told  me  that  you  were  away 
in  the  country.  You  remember  Mather,  I  suppose? 
He  was  with  us  in  Suakin." 

"  Of  course,  I  remember  him  quite  well,"  said 
Willoughby,  heartily.  He  was  more  than  willing 
to  talk  about  Mather ;  he  had  a  hope  that  in  talking 
about  Mather,  Durrance  might  forget  that  other  mat- 
ter which  caused  him  anxiety. 

"  We  are  both  of  us  curious,"  Durrance  continued, 
"and  you  can  clear  up  the  point  we  are  curious 
about.  Did  you  ever  come  across  an  Arab  called 
Abou  Fatma  ? " 

"  Abou  Fatma,"  said  Willoughby,  slowly,  "  one  of 
the  Hadendoas  ? " 

"  No,  a  man  of  the  Kabbabish  tribe." 

"  Abou  Fatma  ?  "  Willoughby  repeated,  as  though 
for  the  first  time  he  had  heard  the  name.  "  No,  I 
never  came  across  him ;  "  and  then  he  stopped.  It 
occurred  to  Durrance  that  it  was  not  a  natural  place 
at  which  to  stop ;  Willoughby  might  have  been  ex- 
pected to  add,  "  Why  do  you  ask  me?"  or  some  ques- 
tion of  the  kind.  But  he  kept  silent.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  was  wondering  how  in  the  world  Durrance 
had  ever  come  to  hear  of  Abou  Fatma,  whose  name 
he  himself  had  heard  for  the  first  and  last  time  a  year 


DURRJNCE    LETS    HIS    CIGAR    GO    OUT    253 

ago  upon  the  verandah  of  the  Palace  at  Suakin.  For 
he  had  spoken  the  truth.  He  never  had  come  across 
Abou  Fatma,  although  Feversham  had  spoken  of 
him. 

"  That  makes  me  still  more  curious,"  Durrance 
continued.  "  Mather  and  I  were  together  on  the 
last  reconnaissance  in  '84,  and  we  found  Abou  Fatma 
hiding  in  the  bushes  by  the  Sinkat  fort.  He  told  us 
about  the  Gordon  letters  which  he  had  hidden  in 
Berber.     Ah  !  you  remember  his  name  now." 

"  I  was  merely  getting  my  pipe  out  of  my  pocket," 
said  Willoughby.  "  But  I  do  remember  the  name 
now  that  you  mention  the  letters." 

"  They  were  brought  to  you  in  Suakin  fifteen 
months  or  so  back.  Mather  showed  me  the  para- 
graph in  the  Evening  Standard.  And  I  am  curious 
as  to  whether  Abou  Fatma  returned  to  Berber  and 
recovered  them.  But  since  you  have  never  come 
across  him,  it  follows  that  he  was  not  the  man." 

Captain  Willoughby  began  to  feel  sorry  that  he 
had  been  in  such  haste  to  deny  all  acquaintance  with 
Abou  Fatma  of  the  Kabbabish  tribe. 

"  No ;  it  was  not  Abou  Fatma,"  he  said,  with  an 
awkward  sort  of  hesitation.  He  dreaded  the  next 
question  which  Durrance  would  put  to  him.  He  filled 
his  pipe,  pondering  what  answer  he  should  make  to  it. 
But  Durrance  put  no  question  at  all  for  the  moment. 

"  I  wondered,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  thought  that 
Abou  Fatma  would  hardly  return  to  Berber.  For, 
indeed,  whoever  undertook  the  job  undertook  it  at 
the  risk  of  his  life,  and,  since  Gordon  was  dead,  for 
no  very  obvious  reason." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Willoughby,  in  a  voice  of  relief. 


254  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

It  seemed  that  Durrance's  curiosity  was  satisfied  with 
the  knowledge  that  Abou  Fatma  had  not  recovered 
the  letters.  "  Quite  so.  Since  Gordon  was  dead,  for 
no  reason." 

"  For  no  obvious  reason,  I  think  I  said,"  Durrance 
remarked  imperturbably.  Willoughby  turned  and 
glanced  suspiciously  at  his  companion,  wondering 
whether,  after  all,  Durrance  knew  of  his  visit  to 
Kingsbridge  and  its  motive.  Durrance,  however, 
smoked  his  cigar,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  his 
face  tilted  up  towards  the  ceiling.  He  seemed,  now 
that  his  curiosity  was  satisfied,  to  have  lost  interest 
in  the  history  of  the  Gordon  letters.  At  all  events, 
he  put  no  more  questions  upon  that  subject  to  em- 
barrass Captain  Willoughby,  and  indeed  there  was 
no  need  that  he  should.  Thinking  over  the  possible 
way  by  which  Harry  Feversham  might  have  re- 
deemed himself  in  Willoughby's  eyes  from  the  charge 
of  cowardice,  Durrance  could  only  hit  upon  this  re- 
covery of  the  letters  from  the  ruined  wall  in  Berber. 
There  had  been  no  personal  danger  to  the  inhabit- 
ants of  Suakin  since  the  days  of  that  last  reconnais- 
sance. The  great  troop-ships  had  steamed  between 
the  coral  reefs  towards  Suez,  and  no  cry  for  help  had 
ever  summoned  them  back.  Willoughby  risked  only 
his  health  in  that  white  palace  on  the  Red  Sea.  There 
could  not  have  been  a  moment  when  Feversham  was 
in  a  position  to  say,  "  Your  life  was  forfeit  but  for 
me,  whom  you  call  coward."  And  Durrance,  turning 
over  in  his  mind  all  the  news  and  gossip  which  had 
come  to  him  at  Wadi  Haifa  or  during  his  furloughs, 
had  been  brought  to  conjecture  whether  that  fugitive 
from  Khartum,  who  had  told   him  his  story  in  the 


DURRANCE    LETS    HIS    CIGAR    GO    OUT    255 

glacis  of  the  silent  ruined  fort  of  Sinkat  during  one 
drowsy  afternoon  of  May,  had  not  told  it  again  at 
Suakin  within  Feversham's  hearing.  He  was  con- 
vinced now  that  his  conjecture  was  correct. 

Willoughby's  reticence  was  in  itself  a  sufficient 
confirmation.  Willoughby,  without  doubt,  had  been 
instructed  by  Ethne  to  keep  his  tongue  in  a  leash. 
Colonel  Durrance  was  prepared  for  reticence,  he 
looked  to  reticence  as  the  answer  to  his  conjecture. 
His  trained  ear,  besides,  had  warned  him  that  Wil- 
loughby was  uneasy  at  his  visit  and  careful  in  his 
speech.  There  had  been  pauses,  during  which  Dur- 
rance was  as  sure  as  though  he  had  eyes  wherewith 
to  see,  that  his  companion  was  staring  at  him  sus- 
piciously and  wondering  how  much  he  knew,  or  how 
little.  There  had  been  an  accent  of  wariness  and 
caution  in  his  voice,  which  was  hatefully  familiar  to 
Durrance's  ears,  for  just  with  that  accent  Ethne  had 
been  wont  to  speak.  Moreover,  Durrance  had  set 
traps, — that  remark  of  his  "for  no  obvious  reason, 
I  think  I  said,"  had  been  one,  —  and  a  little  start 
here,  or  a  quick  turn  there,  showed  him  that  Wil- 
loughby had  tumbled  into  them. 

He  had  no  wish,  however,  that  Willoughby  should 
write  off  to  Ethne  and  warn  her  that  Durrance  was 
making  inquiries.  That  was  a  possibility,  he  recog- 
nised, and  he  set  himself  to  guard  against  it. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  why  I  was  anxious  to  meet 
you,"  he  said.  "It  was  because  of  Harry  Fever- 
sham  ; "  and  Captain  Willoughby,  who  was  congratu- 
lating himself  that  he  was  well  out  of  an  awkward 
position,  fairly  jumped  in  his  seat.  It  was  not  Dur- 
rance's policy,   however,   to   notice   his   companion's 


256  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

agitation,  and  he  went  on  quickly  :  "  Something  hap- 
pened to  Feversham.  It's  more  than  five  years  ago 
now.  He  did  something,  I  suppose,  or  left  some- 
thing undone,  —  the  secret,  at  all  events,  has  been 
closely  kept, — and  he  dropped  out,  and  his  place 
knew  him  no  more.  Now  you  are  going  back  to 
the  Soudan,  Willoughby  ? " 

"Yes,"  Willoughby  answered,  "in  a  week's  time." 

"  Well,  Harry  Feversham  is  in  the  Soudan,"  said 
Durrance,  leaning  towards  his  companion. 

"You  know  that?"  exclaimed  Willoughby. 

"  Yes,  for  I  came  across  him  this  Spring  at  Wadi 
Haifa,"  Durrance  continued.  "  He  had  fallen  rather 
low,"  and  he  told  Willoughby  of  their  meeting  out- 
side of  the  cafe  of  Tewfikieh.  "  It's  strange,  isn't  it  ? 
—  a  man  whom  one  knew  very  well  going  under  like 
that  in  a  second,  disappearing  before  your  eyes  as  it 
were,  dropping  plumb  out  of  sight  as  though  down 
an  oubliette  in  an  old  French  castle.  I  want  you  to 
look  out  for  him,  Willoughby,  and  do  what  you  can 
to  set  him  on  his  legs  again.  Let  me  know  if  you 
chance  on  him.  Harry  Feversham  was  a  friend  of 
mine  —  one  of  my  few  real  friends." 

"All  right,"  said  Willoughby,  cheerfully.  Dur- 
rance knew  at  once  from  the  tone  of  his  voice  that 
suspicion  was  quieted  in  him.  "  I  will  look  out  for 
Feversham.  I  remember  he  was  a  great  friend  of 
yours." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  towards  the  matches 
upon  the  table  beside  him.  Durrance  heard  the 
scrape  of  the  phosphorus  and  the  flare  of  the  match. 
Willoughby  was  lighting  his  pipe.  It  was  a  well- 
seasoned  piece  of  briar,  and  needed  a  cleaning ;  it 


DURRANCE    LETS    HIS    CIGAR    GO    OUT     257 

bubbled  as  he  held  the  match  to  the  tobacco  and 
sucked  at  the  mouthpiece. 

"Yes,  a  great  friend,"  said  Durrance.  "You  and 
I  dined  with  him  in  his  flat  high  up  above  St.  James's 
Park  just  before  we  left  England." 

And  at  that  chance  utterance  Willoughby's  briar 
pipe  ceased  suddenly  to  bubble.  A  moment's  silence 
followed,  then  Willoughby  swore  violently,  and  a 
second  later  he  stamped  upon  the  carpet.  Dur- 
rance's  imagination  was  kindled  by  this  simple  se- 
quence of  events,  and  he  straightway  made  up  a  little 
picture  in  his  mind.  In  one  chair  himself  smok- 
ing his  cigar,  a  round  table  holding  a  match-stand 
on  his  left  hand,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  table 
Captain  Willoughby  in  another  chair.  But  Captain 
Willoughby  lighting  his  pipe  and  suddenly  arrested 
in  the  act  by  a  sentence  spoken  without  signifi- 
cance, Captain  Willoughby  staring  suspiciously  in 
his  slow-witted  way  at  the  blind  man's  face,  until 
the  lighted  match,  which  he  had  forgotten,  burnt 
down  to  his  fingers,  and  he  swore  and  dropped  it  and 
stamped  it  out  upon  the  floor.  Durrance  had  never 
given  a  thought  to  that  dinner  till  this  moment.  It 
was  possible  it  might  deserve  much  thought. 

"  There  were  you  and  I  and  Feversham  present," 
he  went  on.  "  Feversham  had  asked  us  there  to  tell 
us  of  his  engagement  to  Miss  Eustace.  He  had  just 
come  back  from  Dublin.  That  was  almost  the  last 
we  saw  of  him."  He  took  a  pull  at  his  cigar  and 
added,  "  By  the  way,  there  was  a  third  man  present." 

"  Was  there  ? "  asked  Willoughby.  "  It's  so  long 
ago. 

"  Yes  —  Trench." 


258  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  To  be  sure,  Trench  was  present.  It  will  be  a 
long  time,  I  am  afraid,  before  we  dine  at  the  same 
table  with  poor  old  Trench  again." 

The  carelessness  of  his  voice  was  well  assumed ; 
he  leaned  forwards  and  struck  another  match  and 
lighted  his  pipe.  As  he  did  so,  Durrance  laid  down 
his  cigar  upon  the  table  edge. 

"  And  we  shall  never  dine  with  Castleton  again," 
he  said  slowly. 

"  Castleton  wasn't  there,"  Willoughby  exclaimed, 
and  quickly  enough  to  betray  that,  however  long  the 
interval  since  that  little  dinner  in  Feversham's  rooms, 
it  was  at  all  events  still  distinct  in  his  recollections. 

"  No,  but  he  was  expected,"  said  Durrance. 

"  No,  not  even  expected,"  corrected  Willoughby. 
"  He  was  dining  elsewhere.  He  sent  the  telegram, 
you  remember." 

"  Ah,  yes,  a  telegram  came,"  said  Durrance. 

That  dinner  party  certainly  deserved  consideration. 
Willoughby,  Trench,  Castleton  —  these  three  men 
were  the  cause  of  Harry  Feversham's  disgrace  and 
disappearance.  Durrance  tried  to  recollect  all  the 
details  of  the  evening ;  but  he  had  been  occupied 
himself  on  that  occasion.  He  remembered  leaning 
against  the  window  above  St.  James's  Park ;  he  re- 
membered hearing  the  tattoo  from  the  parade-ground 
of  Wellington  Barracks  —  and  a  telegram  had  come. 

Durrance  made  up  another  picture  in  his  mind. 
Harry  Feversham  at  the  table  reading  and  re-reading 
his  telegram,  Trench  and  Willoughby  waiting  silently, 
perhaps  expectantly,  and  himself  paying  no  heed, 
but  staring  out  from  the  bright  room  into  the  quiet 
and  cool  of  the  park. 


DURRJNCE    LETS    HIS    CIGAR    GO    OUT    259 

"  Castleton  was  dining  with  a  big  man  from  the 
War  Office  that  night,"  Durrance  said,  and  a  little 
movement  at  his  side  warned  him  that  he  was  getting 
hot  in  his  search.  He  sat  for  a  while  longer  talking 
about  the  prospects  of  the  Soudan,  and  then  rose  up 
from  his  chair. 

"Well,  I  can  rely  on  you,  Willoughby,  to  help 
Feversham  if  ever  you  find  him.  Draw  on  me  for 
money." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Willoughby.  "  You  are 
going  ?  I  could  have  won  a  bet  off  you  this  after- 
noon." 

"  How  ? " 

"  You  said  that  you  did  not  let  your  cigars  go  out. 
This  one's  stone  cold." 

"  I  forgot  about  it ;  I  was  thinking  of  Feversham. 
Good-bye." 

He  took  a  cab  and  drove  away  from  the  club  door. 
Willoughby  was  glad  to  see  the  last  of  him,  but  he 
was  fairly  satisfied  with  his  own  exhibition  of  diplo- 
macy. It  would  have  been  strange,  after  all,  he 
thought,  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  hoodwink  poor 
old  Durrance;  and  he  returned  to  the  smoking-room 
and  refreshed  himself  with  a  whiskey  and  potass. 

Durrance,  however,  had  not  been  hoodwinked. 
The  last  perplexing  question  had  been  answered  for 
him  that  afternoon.  He  remembered  now  that  no 
mention  had  been  made  at  the  dinner  which  could 
identify  the  sender  of  the  telegram.  Feversham  had 
read  it  without  a  word,  and  without  a  word  had  crum- 
pled it  up  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire.  But  to-day 
Willoughby  had  told  him  that  it  had  come  from 
Castleton,  and   Castleton   had   been   dining  with    a 


260  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

high  official  of  the  War  Office.  The  particular  act 
of  cowardice  which  had  brought  the  three  white 
feathers  to  Ramelton  was  easy  to  discern.  Almost 
the  next  day  Feversham  had  told  Durrance  in  the 
Row  that  he  had  resigned  his  commission,  and  Dur- 
rance knew  that  he  had  not  resigned  it  when  the 
telegram  came.  That  telegram  could  have  brought 
only  one  piece  of  news,  that  Feversham's  regiment 
was  ordered  on  active  service.  The  more  Durrance 
reflected,  the  more  certain  he  felt  that  he  had  at  last 
hit  upon  the  truth.  Nothing  could  be  more  natural 
than  that  Castleton  should  telegraph  his  good  news 
in  confidence  to  his  friends.  Durrance  had  the 
story  now  complete,  or  rather,  the  sequence  of  facts 
complete.  For  why  Feversham  should  have  been 
seized  with  panic,  why  he  should  have  played  the 
coward  the  moment  after  he  was  engaged  to  Ethne 
Eustace  —  at  a  time,  in  a  word,  when  every  manly 
quality  he  possessed  should  have  been  at  its  strong- 
est and  truest,  remained  for  Durrance,  and  indeed, 
was  always  to  remain,  an  inexplicable  problem.  But 
he  put  that  question  aside,  classing  it  among  the  con- 
siderations which  he  had  learnt  to  estimate  as  small 
and  unimportant.  The  simple  and  true  thing  —  the 
thing  of  real  importance  —  emerged  definite  and  clear  : 
Harry  Feversham  was  atoning  for  his  one  act  of 
cowardice  with  a  full  and  an  overflowing  measure  of 
atonement. 

"  I  shall  astonish  old  Sutch,"  he  thought,  with  a 
chuckle.  He  took  the  night  mail  into  Devonshire 
the  same  evening,  and  reached  his  home  before 
midday. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

MRS.  ADAIR  MAKES  HER  APOLOGY 

Within  the  drawing-room  at  The  Pool,  Durrance 
said  good-bye  to  Ethne.  He  had  so  arranged  it  that 
there  should  be  little  time  for  that  leave-taking,  and 
already  the  carriage  stood  at  the  steps  of  Guessens, 
with  his  luggage  strapped  upon  the  roof  and  his  ser- 
vant waiting  at  the  door. 

Ethne  came  out  with  him  on  to  the  terrace,  where 
Mrs.  Adair  stood  at  the  top  of  the  flight  of  steps. 
Durrance  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  but  she  turned  to 
Ethne  and  said  :  — 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  Colonel  Durrance  before  he 
goes." 

"Very  well,"  said  Ethne.  "Then  we  will  say 
good-bye  here,"  she  added  to  Durrance.  "  You  will 
write  from  Wiesbaden  ?     Soon,  please  !  " 

"  The  moment  I  arrive,"  answered  Durrance.  He 
descended  the  steps  with  Mrs.  Adair,  and  left  Ethne 
standing  upon  the  terrace.  The  last  scene  of  pre- 
tence had  been  acted  out,  the  months  of  tension  and 
surveillance  had  come  to  an  end,  and  both  were 
thankful  for  their  release.  Durrance  showed  that 
he  was  glad  even  in  the  briskness  of  his  walk,  as  he 
crossed  the  lawn  at  Mrs.  Adair's  side.  She,  how- 
ever, lagged,  and  when  she  spoke  it  was  in  a  despond- 
ent voice. 

261 


262  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"So  you  are  going,"  she  said.  "In  two  days'  time 
you  will  be  at  Wiesbaden  and  Ethne  at  Glenalla.  We 
shall  all  be  scattered.     It  will  be  lonely  here." 

She  had  had  her  way ;  she  had  separated  Ethne 
and  Durrance  for  a  time  at  all  events ;  she  was  no 
longer  to  be  tortured  by  the  sight  of  them  and  the 
sound  of  their  voices ;  but  somehow  her  interference 
had  brought  her  little  satisfaction.  "  The  house  will 
seem  very  empty  after  you  are  all  gone,"  she  said; 
and  she  turned  at  Durrance's  side  and  walked  down 
with  him  into  the  garden. 

"We  shall  come  back,  no  doubt,"  said  Durrance, 
reassuringly. 

Mrs.  Adair  looked  about  her  garden.  The  flowers 
were  gone,  and  the  sunlight ;  clouds  stretched  across 
the  sky  overhead,  the  green  of  the  grass  underfoot 
was  dull,  the  stream  ran  grey  in  the  gap  between  the 
trees,  and  the  leaves  from  the  branches  were  blown 
russet  and  yellow  about  the  lawns. 

"  How  long  shall  you  stay  at  Wiesbaden  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell.  But  as  long  as  it's  advisable," 
he  answered. 

"  That  tells  me  nothing  at  all.  I  suppose  it  was 
meant  not  to  tell  me  anything." 

Durrance  did  not  answer  her,  and  she  resented  his 
silence.  She  knew  nothing  whatever  of  his  plans ; 
she  was  unaware  whether  he  meant  to  break  his 
engagement  with  Ethne  or  to  hold  her  to  it,  and 
curiosity  consumed  her.  It  might  be  a  very  long 
time  before  she  saw  him  again,  and  all  that  long 
time  she  must  remain  tortured  with  doubts. 

"You  distrust  me  ?  "  she  said  defiantly,  and  with  a 
note  of  anger  in  her  voice. 


MRS.    ADAIR    MAKES   HER    APOLOGY     263 

Durrance  answered  her  quite  gently :  — 

"  Have  I  no  reason  to  distrust  you  ?  Why  did  you 
tell  me  of  Captain  Willoughby's  coming  ?  Why  did 
you  interfere  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  ought  to  know." 

"  But  Ethne  wished  the  secret  kept.  I  am  glad  to 
know,  very  glad.  But,  after  all,  you  told  me,  and  you 
were  Ethne's  friend." 

"  Yours,  too,  I  hope,"  Mrs.  Adair  answered,  and 
she  exclaimed  :  "  How  could  I  go  on  keeping  silence? 
Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

"No." 

Durrance  might  have  understood,  but  he  had  never 
given  much  thought  to  Mrs.  Adair,  and  she  knew  it. 
The  knowledge  rankled  within  her,  and  his  simple 
"  no  "  stung  her  beyond  bearing. 

"  I  spoke  brutally,  didn't  I  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  told 
you  the  truth  as  brutally  as  I  could.  Doesn't  that 
help  you  to  understand  ?  " 

Again  Durrance  said  "  No,"  and  the  monosyllable 
exasperated  her  out  of  all  prudence,  and  all  at  once 
she  found  herself  speaking  incoherently  the  things 
which  she  had  thought.  And  once  she  had  begun, 
she  could  not  stop.  She  stood,  as  it  were,  outside  of 
herself,  and  saw  that  her  speech  was  madness ;  yet 
she  went  on  with  it. 

"  I  told  you  the  truth  brutally  on  purpose.  I  was 
so  stung  because  you  would  not  see  what  was  so 
visible  had  you  only  the  mind  to  see.  I  wanted  to 
hurt  you.  I  am  a  bad,  bad  woman,  I  suppose. 
There  were  you  and  she  in  the  room  talking  together 
in  the  darkness ;  there  was  I  alone  upon  the  terrace. 
It  was  the  same  again  to-day.     You  and  Ethne  in 


264  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

the  room,  I  alone  upon  the  terrace.  I  wonder 
whether  it  will  always  be  so.  But  you  will  not  say 
—  you  will  not  say."  She  struck  her  hands  together 
with  a  gesture  of  despair,  but  Durrance  had  no  words 
for  her.  He  walked  silently  along  the  garden  path 
towards  the  stile,  and  he  quickened  his  pace  a  little,  so 
that  Mrs.  Adair  had  to  walk  fast  to  keep  up  with 
him.  That  quickening  of  the  pace  was  a  sort  of 
answer,  but  Mrs.  Adair  was  not  deterred  by  it.  Her 
madness  had  taken  hold  of  her. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  would  have  minded  so  much," 
she  continued,  "if  Ethne  had  really  cared  for  you; 
but  she  never  cared  more  than  as  a  friend  cares,  just 
a  mere  friend.  And  what's  friendship  worth  ?  "  she 
asked  scornfully. 

"  Something,  surely,"  said  Durrance. 

"  It  does  not  prevent  Ethne  from  shrinking  from 
her  friend,"  cried  Mrs.  Adair.  "  She  shrinks  from 
you.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  Because  you  are 
blind.  She  is  afraid.  While  I  —  I  will  tell  you  the 
truth  —  I  am  glad.  When  the  news  first  came  from 
Wadi  Haifa  that  you  were  blind,  I  was  glad ;  when  I 
saw  you  in  Hill  Street,  I  was  glad  ;  ever  since,  I  have 
been  glad  —  quite  glad.  Because  I  saw  that  she 
shrank.  From  the  beginning  she  shrank,  thinking 
how  her  life  would  be  hampered  and  fettered,"  and 
the  scorn  of  Mrs.  Adair's  voice  increased,  though 
her  voice  itself  was  sunk  to  a  whisper.  "  I  am  not 
afraid,"  she  said,  and  she  repeated  the  words  passion- 
ately again  and  again.  "  I  am  not  afraid.  I  am  not 
afraid." 

To  Durrance  it  seemed  that  in  all  his  experience 
nothing  so  horrible  had  ever  occurred  as  this  outburst 


MRS.    ADAIR    MAKES    HER    APOLOGY      265 

by  the  woman  who  was  Ethne's  friend,  nothing  so 
unforeseen. 

"Ethne  wrote  to  you  at  Wadi  Haifa  out  of  pity," 
she  went  on,  "  that  was  all.  She  wrote  out  of  pity ; 
and,  having, written,  she  was  afraid  of  what  she  had 
done ;  and  being  afraid,  she  had  not  courage  to  tell 
you  she  was  afraid.  You  would  not  have  blamed 
her,  if  she  had  frankly  admitted  it ;  you  would  have 
remained  her  friend.      But  she  had  not  the  courage." 

Durrance  knew  that  there  was  another  explanation 
of  Ethne's  hesitations  and  timidities.  He  knew,  too, 
that  the  other  explanation  was  the  true  one.  But 
to-morrow  he  himself  would  be  gone  from  the  Sal- 
combe  estuary,  and  Ethne  would  be  on  her  way  to  the 
Irish  Channel  and  Donegal.  It  was  not  worth  while 
to  argue  against  Mrs.  Adair's  slanders.  Besides,  he 
was  close  upon  the  stile  which  separated  the  garden 
of  The  Pool  from  the  fields.  Once  across  that  stile, 
he  would  be  free  of  Mrs.  Adair.  He  contented  him- 
self with  saying  quietly  :  — 

"  You  are  not  just  to  Ethne." 

At  that  simple  utterance  the  madness  of  Mrs. 
Adair  went  from  her.  She  recognised  the  futility  of 
all  that  she  had  said,  of  her  boastings  of  courage,  of 
her  detractions  of  Ethne.  Her  words  might  be  true 
or  not,  they  could  achieve  nothing.  Durrance  was 
always  in  the  room  with  Ethne,  never  upon  the  terrace 
with  Mrs.  Adair.  She  became  conscious  of  her 
degradation,  and  she  fell  to  excuses. 

"  I  am  a  bad  woman,  I  suppose.  But  after  all,  I 
have  not  had  the  happiest  of  lives.  Perhaps  there  is 
something  to  be  said  for  me."  It  sounded  pitiful 
and  weak,  even  in  her  ears ;  but  they  had  reached  the 


266  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

stile,  and  Durrance  had  turned  towards  her.  She  saw- 
that  his  face  lost  something  of  its  sternness.  He  was 
standing  quietly,  prepared  now  to  listen  to  what  she 
might  wish  to  say.  He  remembered  that  in  the  old 
days  when  he  could  see,  he  had  always  associated 
her  with  a  dignity  of  carriage  and  a  reticence  of 
speech.  It  seemed  hardly  possible  that  it  was  the 
same  woman  who  spoke  to  him  now,  and  the  violence 
of  the  contrast  made  him  ready  to  believe  that  there 
must  be  perhaps  something  to  be  said  on  her  behalf. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  ?  "  he  said  gently. 

"  I  was  married  almost  straight  from  school.  I  was 
the  merest  girl.  I  knew  nothing,  and  I  was  married 
to  a  man  of  whom  I  knew  nothing.  It  was  my 
mother's  doing,  and  no  doubt  she  thought  that  she 
was  acting  for  the  very  best.  She  was  securing  for 
me  a  position  of  a  kind,  and  comfort  and  release 
from  any  danger  of  poverty.  I  accepted  what  she 
said  blindly,  ignorantly.  I  could  hardly  have  refused, 
indeed,  for  my  mother  was  an  imperious  woman,  and 
I  was  accustomed  to  obedience.  I  did  as  she  told  me 
and  married  dutifully  the  man  whom  she  chose.  The 
case  is  common  enough,  no  doubt,  but  its  frequency 
does  not  make  it  easier  of  endurance." 

"But  Mr.  Adair?"  said  Durrance.  "After  all,  I 
knew  him.  He  was  older,  no  doubt,  than  you,  but  he 
was  kind.     I  think,  too,  he  cared  for  you." 

"  Yes.  He  was  kindness  itself,  and  he  cared  for 
me.  Both  things  are  true.  The  knowledge  that  he 
did  care  for  me  was  the  one  link,  if  you  understand. 
At  the  beginning  I  was  contented,  I  suppose.  I  had 
a  house  in  town  and  another  here.  But  it  was  dull," 
and  she  stretched  out  her  arms.     "  Oh,  how  dull  it 


MRS.    ADAIR    MAKES   HER    APOLOGY     26? 

was !  Do  you  know  the  little  back  streets  in  a  manu- 
facturing town  ?  Rows  of  small  houses,  side  by  side, 
with  nothing  to  relieve  them  of  their  ugly  regularity, 
each  with  the  self-same  windows,  the  self-same  door,  the 
self-same  door-step.  Overhead  a  drift  of  smoke,  and 
every  little  green  thing  down  to  the  plants  in  the  win- 
dow dirty  and  black.  The  sort  of  street  whence  any 
crazy  religious  charlatan  who  can  promise  a  little  col- 
our to  their  grey  lives  can  get  as  many  votaries  as  he 
wants.  Well,  when  I  thought  over  my  life,  one  of  those 
little  streets  always  came  into  my  mind.  There  are 
women,  heaps  of  them,  no  doubt,  to  whom  the  manage- 
ment of  a  big  house,  the  season  in  London,  the  ordi- 
nary round  of  visits,  are  sufficient.  I,  worse  luck,  was 
not  one  of  them.  Dull !  You,  with  your  hundred  thou- 
sand things  to  do,  cannot  conceive  how  oppressively 
dull  my  life  was.  And  that  was  not  all ! "  She 
hesitated,  but  she  could  not  stop  midway,  and  it  was 
far  too  late  for  her  to  recover  her  ground.  She  went 
on  to  the  end. 

"  I  married,  as  I  say,  knowing  nothing  of  the  im- 
portant things.  I  believed  at  the  first  that  mine  was 
just  the  allotted  life  of  all  women.  But  I  began  soon 
to  have  my  doubts.  I  got  to  know  that  there  was 
something  more  to  be  won  out  of  existence  than  mere 
dulness ;  at  least,  that  there  was  something  more 
for  others,  though  not  for  me.  One  could  not  help 
learning  that.  One  passed  a  man  and  a  woman  rid- 
ing together,  and  one  chanced  to  look  into  the 
woman's  face  as  one  passed ;  or  one  saw,  perhaps,  the 
woman  alone  and  talked  with  her  for  a  little  while, 
and  from  the  happiness  of  her  looks  and  voice  one 
knew  with  absolute  certainty  that  there  was  ever  so 


268  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

much  more.     Only  the  chance  of  that  ever  so  much 
more  my  mother  had  denied  to  me." 

All  the  sternness  had  now  gone  from  Durrance's 
face,  and  Mrs.  Adair  was  speaking  with  a  great 
simplicity.  Of  the  violence  which  she  had  used 
before  there  was  no  longer  any  trace.  She  did  not 
appeal  for  pity,  she  was  not  even  excusing  herself ; 
she  was  just  telling  her  story  quietly  and  gently. 

"  And  then  you  came,"  she  continued.  "  I  met 
you,  and  met  you  again.  You  went  away  upon  your 
duties  and  you  returned;  and  I  learnt  now,  not  that 
there  was  ever  so  much  more,  but  just  what  that  ever 
so  much  more  was.  But  it  was  still,  of  course,  denied 
to  me.  However,  in  spite  of  that  I  felt  happier.  I 
thought  that  I  should  be  quite  content  to  have  you 
for  a  friend,  to  watch  your  progress,  and  to  feel  pride 
in  it.  But  you  see  —  Ethne  came,  too,  and  you  turned 
to  her.  At  once  —  oh,  at  once!  If  you  had  only 
been  a  little  less  quick  to  turn  to  her  !  In  a  very 
short  while  I  was  sad  and  sorry  that  you  had  ever 
come  into  my  life." 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  this,"  said  Durrance.  "  I 
never  suspected.     I  am  sorry." 

"  I  took  care  you  should  not  suspect,"  said  Mrs. 
Adair.  "  But  I  tried  to  keep  you;  with  all  my  wits  I 
tried.  No  match-maker  in  the  world  ever  worked  so 
hard  to  bring  two  people  together  as  I  did  to  bring  to- 
gether Ethne  and  Mr.  Feversham,  and  I  succeeded." 

The  statement  came  upon  Durrance  with  a  shock. 
He  leaned  back  against  the  stile  and  could  have 
laughed.  Here  was  the  origin  of  the  whole  sad  busi- 
ness. From  what  small  beginnings  it  had  grown  !  It 
is  a  trite  reflection,  but  the  personal  application  of 


MRS.    ADAIR    MAKES    HER    APOLOGY      269 

it  is  apt  to  take  away  the  breath.  It  was  so  with 
Durrance  as  he  thought  himself  backwards  into  those 
days  when  he  had  walked  on  his  own  path,  heed- 
less of  the  people  with  whom  he  came  in  touch, 
never  dreaming  that  they  were  at  that  moment 
influencing  his  life  right  up  to  his  dying  day. 
Feversham's  disgrace  and  ruin,  Ethne's  years  of  un- 
happiness,  the  wearying  pretences  of  the  last  few 
months,  all  had  their  origin  years  ago  when  Mrs. 
Adair,  to  keep  Durrance  to  herself,  threw  Feversham 
and  Ethne  into  each  other's  company. 

"  I  succeeded,"  continued  Mrs.  Adair.  "  You  told  me 
that  I  had  succeeded  one  morning  in  the  Row.  How 
glad  I  was  !  You  did  not  notice  it,  I  am  sure.  The 
next  moment  you  took  all  my  gladness  from  me  by 
telling  me  you  were  starting  for  the  Soudan.  You 
were  away  three  years.  They  were  not  happy  years 
for  me.  You  came  back.  My  husband  was  dead, 
but  Ethne  was  free.  Ethne  refused  you,  but  you 
went  blind  and  she  claimed  you.  You  can  see  what 
ups  and  downs  have  fallen  to  me.  But  these  months 
here  have  been  the  worst." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Durrance.  Mrs.  Adair 
was  quite  right,  he  thought.  There  was  indeed  some- 
thing to  be  said  on  her  behalf.  The  world  had  gone 
rather  hardly  with  her.  He  was  able  to  realise  what 
she  had  suffered,  since  he  was  suffering  in  much  the 
same  way  himself.  It  was  quite  intelligible  to  him 
why  she  had  betrayed  Ethne's  secret  that  night  upon 
the  terrace,  and  he  could  not  but  be  gentle  with  her. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Adair,"  he  repeated  lamely. 
There  was  nothing  more  which  he  could  find  to  say, 
and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 


270  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  Durrance  climbed  over 
the  stile  and  crossed  the  fields  to  his  house. 

Mrs.  Adair  stood  by  that  stile  for  a  long  while  after 
he  had  gone.  She  had  shot  her  bolt  and  hit  no  one 
but  herself  and  the  man  for  whom  she  cared. 

She  realised  that  distinctly.  She  looked  forward 
a  little,  too,  and  she  understood  that  if  Durrance  did 
not,  after  all,  keep  Ethne  to  her  promise  and  marry  her 
and  go  with  her  to  her  country,  he  would  come  back 
to  Guessens.  That  reflection  showed  Mrs.  Adair  yet 
more  clearly  the  folly  of  her  outcry.  If  she  had  only 
kept  silence,  she  would  have  had  a  very  true  and  con- 
stant friend  for  her  neighbour,  and  that  would  have 
been  something.  It  would  have  been  a  good  deal. 
But,  since  she  had  spoken,  they  could  never  meet 
without  embarrassment,  and,  practise  cordiality  as 
they  might,  there  would  always  remain  in  their 
minds  the  recollection  of  what  she  had  said  and  he 
had  listened  to  on  the  afternoon  when  he  left  for 
Wiesbaden. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

ON    THE    NILE 

It  was  a  callous  country  inhabited  by  a  callous 
race,  thought  Calder,  as  he  travelled  down  the  Nile 
from  Wadi  Haifa  to  Assouan  on  his  three  months' 
furlough.  He  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the  upper  deck 
of  the  steamer  and  looked  down  upon  the  barge  lashed 
alongside.  On  the  lower  deck  of  the  barge  among 
the  native  passengers  stood  an  angareb,1  whereon 
was  stretched  the  motionless  figure  of  a  human  being 
shrouded  in  a  black  veil.  The  angareb  and  its 
burden  had  been  carried  on  board  early  that  morning 
at  Korosko  by  two  Arabs,  who  now  sat  laughing  and 
chattering  in  the  stern  of  the  barge.  It  might  have 
been  a  dead  man  or  a  dead  woman  who  lay  still  and 
stretched  out  upon  the  bedstead,  so  little  heed  did 
they  give  to  it.  Calder  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  to 
his  right  and  his  left  across  glaring  sand  and  barren 
rocks  shaped  roughly  into  the  hard  forms  of  pyramids. 
The  narrow  meagre  strip  of  green  close  by  the  water's 
edge  upon  each  bank  was  the  only  response  which 
the  Soudan  made  to  Spring  and  Summer  and  the 
beneficent  rain.  A  callous  country  inhabited  by  a 
callous  people. 

Calder  looked  downwards  again  to  the  angareb 
upon  the  barge's  deck  and  the  figure  lying  upon  it. 

1  The  native  bedstead  of  matting  woven  across  a  four-legged  frame. 

271 


272  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Whether  it  was  man  or  woman  he  could  not  tell. 
The  black  veil  lay  close  about  the  face,  outlining  the 
nose,  the  hollows  of  the  eyes  and  the  mouth  ;  but 
whether  the  lips  wore  a  moustache  and  the  chin  a 
beard,  it  did  not  reveal. 

The  slanting  sunlight  crept  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
angareb.  The  natives  seated  close  to  it  moved  into 
the  shadow  of  the  upper  deck,  but  no  one  moved 
the  angareb,  and  the  two  men  laughing  in  the  stern 
gave  no  thought  to  their  charge.  Calder  watched  the 
blaze  of  yellow  light  creep  over  the  black  recumbent 
figure  from  the  feet  upwards.  It  burnt  at  last  bright 
and  pitiless  upon  the  face.  Yet  the  living  creature 
beneath  the  veil  never  stirred.  The  veil  never  flut- 
tered above  the  lips,  the  legs  remained  stretched 
out  straight,  the  arms  lay  close  against  the  side. 

Calder  shouted  to  the  two  men  in  the  stern. 

"  Move  the  angareb  into  the  shadow,"  he  cried, 
"  and  be  quick  !  " 

The  Arabs  rose  reluctantly  and  obeyed  him. 

"  Is  it  a  man  or  woman  ?  "  asked  Calder. 

"A  man.  We  are  taking  him  to  the  hospital  at 
Assouan,  but  we  do  not  think  that  he  will  live.  He 
fell  from  a  palm  tree  three  weeks  ago." 

"  You  give  him  nothing  to  eat  or  drink  ? " 

"  He  is  too  ill." 

It  was  a  common  story  and  the  logical  outcome  of 
the  belief  that  life  and  death  are  written  and  will 
inevitably  befall  after  the  manner  of  the  writing. 
That  man  lying  so  quiet  beneath  the  black  covering 
had  probably  at  the  beginning  suffered  nothing  more 
serious  than  a  bruise,  which  a  few  simple  remedies 
would  have  cured  within  a  week.     But  he  had  been 


ON   THE   NILE  273 

allowed  to  lie,  even  as  he  lay  upon  the  angareb,  at 
the  mercy  of  the  sun  and  the  flies,  unwashed,  unfed, 
and  with  his  thirst  unslaked.  The  bruise  had  become 
a  sore,  the  sore  had  gangrened,  and  when  all  remedies 
were  too  late,  the  Egyptian  Mudir  of  Korosko  had 
discovered  the  accident  and  sent  the  man  on  the 
steamer  down  to  Assouan.  But,  familiar  though  the 
story  was,  Calder  could  not  dismiss  it  from  his 
thoughts.  The  immobility  of  the  sick  man  upon  the 
native  bedstead  in  a  way  fascinated  him,  and  when 
towards  sunset  a  strong  wind  sprang  up  and  blew 
against  the  stream,  he  felt  an  actual  comfort  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  sick  man  would  gain  some  relief 
from  it.  And  when  his  neighbour  that  evening  at 
the  dinner  table  spoke  to  him  with  a  German  accent, 
he  suddenly  asked  upon  an  impulse  :  — 

"  You  are  not  a  doctor  by  any  chance  ?  " 

"  Not  a  doctor,"  said  the  German,  "  but  a  student 
of  medicine  at  Bonn.  I  came  from  Cairo  to  see  the 
Second  Cataract,  but  was  not  allowed  to  go  farther 
than  Wadi  Haifa." 

Calder  interrupted  him  at  once.  "Then  I  will 
trespass  upon  your  holiday  and  claim  your  profes- 
sional assistance." 

"  For  yourself  ?  With  pleasure,  though  I  should 
never  have  guessed  you  were  ill,"  said  the  student, 
smiling  good-naturedly  behind  his  eyeglasses. 

"  Nor  am  I.  It  is  an  Arab  for  whom  I  ask  your 
help." 

"  The  man  on  the  bedstead  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  be  so  good.  I  will  warn  you  — ■ 
he  was  hurt  three  weeks  ago,  and  I  know  these 
people.     No  one  will  have  touched  him  since  he  was 

T 


274  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

hurt.  The  sight  will  not  be  pretty.  This  is  not  a 
nice  country  for  untended  wounds." 

The  German  student  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  All 
experience  is  good,"  said  he,  and  the  two  men  rose 
from  the  table  and  went  out  on  to  the  upper  deck. 

The  wind  had  freshened  during  the  dinner,  and, 
blowing  up  stream,  had  raised  waves  so  that  the 
steamer  and  its  barge  tossed  and  the  water  broke  on 
board. 

"  He  was  below  there,"  said  the  student,  as  he 
leaned  over  the  rail  and  peered  downwards  to  the 
lower  deck  of  the  barge  alongside.  It  was  night,  and 
the  night  was  dark.  Above  that  lower  deck  only 
one  lamp,  swung  from  the  centre  of  the  upper  deck, 
glimmered  and  threw  uncertain  lights  and  uncertain 
shadows  over  a  small  circle.  Beyond  the  circle  all 
was  black  darkness,  except  at  the  bows,  where  the 
water  breaking  on  board  flung  a  white  sheet  of  spray. 
It  could  be  seen  like  a  sprinkle  of  snow  driven  by  the 
wind,  it  could  be  heard  striking  the  deck  like  the  lash 
of  a  whip. 

"  He  has  been  moved,"  said  the  German.  "  No 
doubt  he  has  been  moved.  There  is  no  one  in  the 
bows." 

Calder  bent  his  head  downwards  and  stared  into 
the  darkness  for  a  little  while  without  speaking. 

"  I  believe  the  angareb  is  there,"  he  said  at  length. 
"I  believe  it  is." 

Followed  by  the  German,  he  hurried  down  the 
stairway  to  the  lower  deck  of  the  steamer  and  went  to 
the  side.  He  could  make  certain  now.  The  angareb 
stood  in  a  wash  of  water  on  the  very  spot  to  which 
at  Calder's  order  it  had  been  moved  that  morning. 


ON   THE    NILE  27$ 

And  on  the  angareb  the  figure  beneath  the  black 
covering  lay  as  motionless  as  ever,  as  inexpressive  of 
life  and  feeling,  though  the  cold  spray  broke  continu- 
ally upon  its  face. 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  so,"  said  Calder.  He  got 
a  lantern  and  with  the  German  student  climbed  across 
the  bulwarks  on  to  the  barge.  He  summoned  the 
two  Arabs. 

"  Move  the  angareb  from  the  bows,"  he  said;  and 
when  they  had  obeyed,  "  Now  take  that  covering  off. 
I  wish  my  friend  who  is  a  doctor  to  see  the  wound." 

The  two  men  hesitated,  and  then  one  of  them  with 
an  air  of  insolence  objected.  "There  are  doctors  in 
Assouan,  whither  we  are  taking  him." 

Calder  raised  the  lantern  and  himself  drew  the  veil 
away  from  off  the  wounded  man.  "  Now  if  you 
please,"  he  said  to  his  companion.  The  German 
student  made  his  examination  of  the  wounded  thigh, 
while  Calder  held  the  lantern  above  his  head.  As 
Calder  had  predicted,  it  was  not  a  pleasant  business; 
for  the  wound  crawled.  The  German  student  was 
glad  to  cover  it  up  again. 

"  I  can  do  nothing,"  he  said.  Perhaps,  in  a  hospi- 
tal, with  baths  and  dressings  — !  Relief  will  be  given 
at  all  events  ;  but  more  ?  I  do  not  know.  Here  I 
could  not  even  begin  to  do  anything  at  all.  Do  these 
two  men  understand  English  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Calder. 

"Then  I  can  tell  you  something.  He  did  not  get 
the  hurt  by  falling  out  of  any  palm  tree.  That  is  a 
lie.  The  injury  was  done  by  the  blade  of  a  spear  or 
some  weapon  of  the  kind." 

"  Are  you  sure  ? " 


276  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  Yes." 

Calder  bent  down  suddenly  towards  the  Arab  on 
the  angareb.  Although  he  never  moved,  the  man  was 
conscious.  Calder  had  been  looking  steadily  at  him, 
and  he  saw  that  his  eyes  followed  the  spoken  words. 

"  You  understand  English  ?  "  said  Calder. 

The  Arab  could  not  answer  with  his  lips,  but  a 
look  of  comprehension  came  into  his  face. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  "  asked  Calder. 

The  lips  tried  to  move,  but  not  so  much  as  a  whisper 
escaped  from  them.  Yet  his  eyes  spoke,  but  spoke 
vainly.  For  the  most  which  they  could  tell  was  a 
great  eagerness  to  answer.  Calder  dropped  upon  his 
knee  close  by  the  man's  head  and,  holding  the  lantern 
close,  enunciated  the  towns. 

"  From  Dongola  ?  " 

No  gleam  in  the  Arab's  eyes  responded  to  that 
name. 

"  From  Metemneh  ?  From  Berber  ?  From  Omdur- 
man  ?     Ah  !  " 

The  Arab  answered  to  that  word.  He  closed  his 
eyelids.     Calder  went  on  still  more  eagerly. 

"  You  were  wounded  there  ?  No.  Where  then  ? 
At  Berber  ?  Yes.  You  were  in  prison  at  Omdurman 
and  escaped  ?     No.     Yet  you  were  wounded." 

Calder  sank  back  upon  his  knee  and  reflected. 
His  reflections  roused  in  him  some  excitement.  He 
bent  down  to  the  Arab's  ear  and  spoke  in  a  lower 
key. 

"  You  were  helping  some  one  to  escape  ?  Yes. 
Who  ?  El  Kaimakam  Trench  ?  No."  He  men- 
tioned the  names  of  other  white  captives  in  Omdur- 
man, and  to  each  name  the  Arab's  eyes  answered 


ON    THE    NILE  277 

"  No."  "  It  was  Effendi  Feversham,  then  ?  "  he  said, 
and  the  eyes  assented  as  clearly  as  though  the  lips 
had  spoken. 

But  this  was  all  the  information  which  Calder 
could  secure.  "  I  too  am  pledged  to  help  Effendi 
Feversham,"  he  said,  but  in  vain.  The  Arab  could 
not  speak,  he  could  not  so  much  as  tell  his  name,  and 
his  companions  would  not.  Whatever  those  two  men 
knew  or  suspected,  they  had  no  mind  to  meddle  in 
the  matter  themselves,  and  they  clung  consistently 
to  a  story  which  absolved  them  from  responsibility. 
Kinsmen  of  theirs  in  Korosko,  hearing  that  they  were 
travelling  to  Assouan,  had  asked  them  to  take  charge 
of  the  wounded  man,  who  was  a  stranger  to  them, 
and  they  had  consented.  Calder  could  get  nothing 
more  explicit  from  them  than  this  statement,  however 
closely  he  questioned  them.  He  had  under  his  hand 
the  information  which  he  desired,  the  news  of  Harry 
Feversham  for  which  Durrance  asked  by  every  mail, 
but  it  was  hidden  from  him  in  a  locked  book.  He 
stood  beside  the  helpless  man  upon  the  angareb. 
There  he  was,  eager  enough  to  speak,  but  the  extrem- 
ity of  weakness  to  which  he  had  sunk  laid  a  finger 
upon  his  lips.  All  that  Calder  could  do  was  to  see 
him  safely  bestowed  within  the  hospital  at  Assouan. 
"Will  he  recover?"  Calder  asked,  and  the  doctors 
shook  their  heads  in  doubt.  There  was  a  chance 
perhaps,  a  very  slight  chance;  but  at  the  best,  recovery 
would  be  slow. 

Calder  continued  upon  his  journey  to  Cairo  and 
Europe.  An  opportunity  of  helping  Harry  Fever- 
sham had  slipped  away  ;  for  the  Arab  who  could 
not  even  speak  his  name  was  Abou  Fatma  of   the 


278  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Kabbabish  tribe,  and  his  presence  wounded  and 
helpless  upon  the  Nile  steamer  between  Korosko 
and  Assouan  meant  that  Harry  Feversham's  care- 
fully laid  plan  for  the  rescue  of  Colonel  Trench  had 
failed. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

LIEUTENANT    SUTCH    COMES    OFF    THE    HALF-PAY    LIST 

At  the  time  when  Calder,  disappointed  at  his  fail- 
ure to  obtain  news  of  Feversham  from  the  one  man 
who  possessed  it,  stepped  into  a  carriage  of  the  train 
at  Assouan,  Lieutenant  Sutch  was  driving  along 
a  high  white  road  of  Hampshire  across  a  common 
of  heather  and  gorse;  and  he  too  was  troubled  on 
Harry  Feversham's  account.  Like  many  a  man  who 
lives  much  alone,  Lieutenant  Sutch  had  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  speaking  his  thoughts  aloud.  And  as 
he  drove  slowly  and  reluctantly  forward,  more  than 
once  he  said  to  himself :  "  I  foresaw  there  would  be 
trouble.  From  the  beginning  I  foresaw  there  would 
be  trouble." 

The  ridge  of  hill  along  which  he  drove  dipped 
suddenly  to  a  hollow.  Sutch  saw  the  road  run 
steeply  down  in  front  of  him  between  forests  of 
pines  to  a  little  railway  station.  The  sight  of  the 
rails  gleaming  bright  in  the  afternoon  sunlight,  and 
the  telegraph  poles  running  away  in  a  straight  line 
until  they  seemed  to  huddle  together  in  the  distance, 
increased  Sutch's  discomposure.  He  reined  his  pony 
in,  and  sat  staring  with  a  frown  at  the  red-tiled  roof 
of  the  station  building. 

"I  promised  Harry  to  say  nothing,"  he  said;  and 
drawing  some  makeshift  of  comfort  from  the  words, 

279 


28o  THE  FOUR    FEATHERS 

repeated  them,  "  I  promised  faithfully  in  the  Cri- 
terion grill-room." 

The  whistle  of  an  engine  a  long  way  off  sounded 
clear  and  shrill.  It  roused  Lieutenant  Sutch  from 
his  gloomy  meditations.  He  saw  the  white  smoke  of 
an  approaching  train  stretch  out  like  a  riband  in  the 
distance. 

"I  wonder  what  brings  him,"  he  said  doubtfully; 
and  then  with  an  effort  at  courage,  "  Well,  it's  no  use 
shirking."  He  flicked  the  pony  with  his  whip  and 
drove  briskly  down  the  hill.  He  reached  the  station 
as  the  train  drew  up  at  the  platform.  Only  two 
passengers  descended  from  the  train.  They  were 
Durrance  and  his  servant,  and  they  came  out  at  once 
on  to  the  road.  Lieutenant  Sutch  hailed  Durrance, 
who  walked  to  the  side  of  the  trap. 

"You  received  my  telegram  in  time,  then?"  said 
Durrance. 

"  Luckily  it  found  me  at  home." 

"  I  have  brought  a  bag.  May  I  trespass  upon  you 
for  a  night's  lodging  ?  " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Sutch,  but  the  tone  of  his 
voice  quite  clearly  to  Durrance's  ears  belied  the 
heartiness  of  the  words.  Durrance,  however,  was 
prepared  for  a  reluctant  welcome,  and  he  had  pur- 
posely sent  his  telegram  at  the  last  moment.  Had 
he  given  an  address,  he  suspected  that  he  might  have 
received  a  refusal  of  his  visit.  And  his  suspicion 
was  accurate  enough.  The  telegram,  it  is  true,  had 
merely  announced  Durrance's  visit,  it  had  stated 
nothing  of  his  object ;  but  its  despatch  was  sufficient 
to  warn  Sutch  that  something  grave  had  happened, 
something  untoward  in  the  relations  of  Ethne  Eustace 


SU7TCH  COMES   OFF   THE   HALF-PAT  LIST    281 

and  Durrance.  Durrance  had  come,  no  doubt,  to 
renew  his  inquiries  about  Harry  Feversham,  those 
inquiries  which  Sutch  was  on  no  account  to  answer, 
which  he  must  parry  all  this  afternoon  and  night. 
But  he  saw  Durrance  feeling  about  with  his  raised 
foot  for  the  step  of  the  trap,  and  the  fact  of  his  visit- 
or's blindness  was  brought  home  to  him.  He  reached 
out  a  hand,  and  catching  Durrance  by  the  arm,  helped 
him  up.  After  all,  he  thought,  it  would  not  be  diffi- 
cult to  hoodwink  a  blind  man.  Ethne  herself  had 
had  the  same  thought  and  felt  much  the  same  relief 
as  Sutch  felt  now.  The  lieutenant,  indeed,  was  so 
relieved  that  he  found  room  for  an  impulse  of  pity. 

"  I  was  very  sorry,  Durrance,  to  hear  of  your  bad 
luck,"  he  said,  as  he  drove  off  up  the  hill.  "  I  know 
what  it  is  myself  to  be  suddenly  stopped  and  put 
aside  just  when  one  is  making  way  and  the  world  is 
smoothing  itself  out,  though  my  wound  in  the  leg  is 
nothing  in  comparison  to  your  blindness.  I  don't 
talk  to  you  about  compensations  and  patience.  That's 
the  gabble  of  people  who  are  comfortable  and  haven't 
suffered.  We  know  that  for  a  man  who  is  young 
and  active,  and  who  is  doing  well  in  a  career  where  ac- 
tivity is  a  necessity,  there  are  no  compensations  if  his 
career's  suddenly  cut  short  through  no  fault  of  his." 

"  Through  no  fault  of  his,"  repeated  Durrance.  "  I 
agree  with  you.  It  is  only  the  man  whose  career  is 
cut  short  through  his  own  fault  who  gets  compen- 
sations." 

Sutch  glanced  sharply  at  his  companion.  Durrance 
had  spoken  slowly  and  very  thoughtfully.  Did  he 
mean  to  refer  to  Harry  Feversham,  Sutch  wondered. 
Did  he  know  enough  to  be  able  so  to  refer  to  him  ? 


282  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Or  was  it  merely  by  chance  that  his  words  were  so 
strikingly  apposite  ? 

"Compensations  of  what  kind?"  Sutch  asked 
uneasily. 

"  The  chance  of  knowing  himself  for  one  thing,  for 
the  chief  thing.  He  is  brought  up  short,  stopped  in 
his  career,  perhaps  disgraced."  Sutch  started  a  little 
at  the  word.  "  Yes,  perhaps  —  disgraced,"  Durrance 
repeated.  "  Well,  the  shock  of  the  disgrace  is,  after 
all,  his  opportunity.  Don't  you  see  that  ?  It's  his 
opportunity  to  know  himself  at  last.  Up  to  the  mo- 
ment of  disgrace  his  life  has  all  been  sham  and  illu- 
sion ;  the  man  he  believed  himself  to  be,  he  never  was, 
and  now  at  the  last  he  knows  it.  Once  he  knows  it, 
he  can  set  about  to  retrieve  his  disgrace.  Oh,  there 
are  compensations  for  such  a  man.  You  and  I  know 
a  case  in  point." 

Sutch  no  longer  doubted  that  Durrance  was  delib- 
erately referring  to  Harry  Feversham.  He  had  some 
knowledge,  though  how  he  had  gained  it  Sutch  could 
not  guess.  But  the  knowledge  was  not  to  Sutch's 
idea  quite  accurate,  and  the  inaccuracy  did  Harry 
Feversham  some  injustice.  It  was  on  that  account 
chiefly  that  Sutch  did  not  affect  any  ignorance  as  to 
Durrance's  allusion.  The  passage  of  the  years  had 
not  diminished  his  great  regard  for  Harry;  he  cared 
for  him  indeed  with  a  woman's  concentration  of  love, 
and  he  could  not  endure  that  his  memory  should  be 
slighted. 

"  The  case  you  and  I  know  of  is  not  quite  in  point," 
he  argued.  "  You  are  speaking  of  Harry  Fever- 
sham." 

"Who  believed  himself  a  coward,  and  was  not  one. 


SUTCH  COMES   OFF    THE   HALF-PAT  LIST    283 

He  commits  the  fault  which  stops  his  career,  he  finds 
out  his  mistake,  he  sets  himself  to  the  work  of  retriev- 
ing his  disgrace.     Surely  it's  a  case  quite  in  point." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  Sutch  agreed.  "There  is  another 
view,  a  wrong  view  as  I  know,  but  I  thought  for  the 
moment  it  was  your  view  — that  Harry  fancied  him- 
self to  be  a  brave  man  and  was  suddenly  brought  up 
short  by  discovering  that  he  was  a  coward.  But  how 
did  you  find  out  ?  No  one  knew  the  whole  truth  ex- 
cept myself." 

"  I  am  engaged  to  Miss  Eustace,"  said  Durrance. 

"  She  did  not  know  everything.  She  knew  of  the 
disgrace,  but  she  did  not  know  of  the  determination 
to  retrieve  it." 

"  She  knows  now,"  said  Durrance ;  and  he  added 
sharply,  "  You  are  glad  of  that  —  very  glad." 

Sutch  was  not  aware  that  by  any  movement  or  ex- 
clamation he  had  betrayed  his  pleasure.  His  face,  no 
doubt,  showed  it  clearly  enough,  but  Durrance  could 
not  see  his  face.  Lieutenant  Sutch  was  puzzled,  but 
he  did  not  deny  the  imputation. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said  stoutly.  "  I  am  very  glad  that 
she  knows.  I  can  quite  see  that  from  your  point  of 
view  it  would  be  better  if  she  did  not  know.  But  I 
cannot  help  it.     I  am  very  glad." 

Durrance  laughed,  and  not  at  all  unpleasantly.  "  I 
like  you  the  better  for  being  glad,"  he  said. 

"  But  how  does  Miss  Eustace  know  ?  "  asked  Sutch. 
"  Who  told  her  ?  I  did  not,  and  there  is  no  one  else 
who  could  tell  her." 

"You  are  wrong.  There  is  Captain  Willoughby.  He 
came  to  Devonshire  six  weeks  ago.  He  brought  with 
him  a  white  feather  which  he  gave  to  Miss  Eustace, 


284  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

as  a  proof  that  he  withdrew  his  charge  of  cowardice 
against  Harry  Feversham." 

Sutch  stopped  the  pony  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
He  no  longer  troubled  to  conceal  the  joy  which  this 
good  news  caused  him.  Indeed,  he  forgot  altogether 
Durrance's  presence  at  his  side.  He  sat  quite  silent 
and  still,  with  a  glow  of  happiness  upon  him,  such  as 
he  had  never  known  in  all  his  life.  He  was  an  old 
man  now,  well  on  in  his  sixties ;  he  had  reached  an 
age  when  the  blood  runs  slow,  and  the  pleasures  are 
of  a  grey  sober  kind,  and  joy  has  lost  its  fevers.  But 
there  welled  up  in  his  heart  a  gladness  of  such  buoy- 
ancy as  only  falls  to  the  lot  of  youth.  Five  years  ago 
on  the  pier  of  Dover  he  had  watched  a  mail  packet 
steam  away  into  darkness  and  rain,  and  had  prayed 
that  he  might  live  until  this  great  moment  should  come. 
And  he  had  lived  and  it  had  come.  His  heart  was 
lifted  up  in  gratitude.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there 
was  a  great  burst  of  sunlight  across  the  world,  and 
that  the  world  itself  had  suddenly  grown  many-col- 
oured and  a  place  of  joys.  Ever  since  the  night  when 
he  had  stood  outside  the  War  Office  in  Pall  Mall,  and 
Harry  Feversham  had  touched  him  on  the  arm  and 
had  spoken  out  his  despair,  Lieutenant  Sutch  had 
been  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  guilt.  Harry  was 
Muriel  Feversham's  boy,  and  Sutch  just  for  that  rea- 
son should  have  watched  him  and  mothered  him  in 
his  boyhood  since  his  mother  was  dead,  and  fathered 
him  in  his  youth  since  his  father  did  not  understand. 
But  he  had  failed.  He  had  failed  in  a  sacred  trust, 
and  he  had  imagined  Muriel  Feversham's  eyes  look- 
ing at  him  with  reproach  from  the  barrier  of  the 
skies.     He  had  heard  her  voice  in  his  dreams  saying 


SUTCH  COMES   OFF  THE  HALF-PAT  LIST    285 

to  him  gently,  ever  so  gently :  "  Since  I  was  dead, 
since  I  was  taken  away  to  where  I  could  only  see 
and  not  help,  surely  you  might  have  helped.  Just  for 
my  sake  you  might  have  helped,  —  you  whose  work  in 
the  world  was  at  an  end."  And  the  long  tale  of  his 
inactive  years  had  stood  up  to  accuse  him.  Now,  how- 
ever, the  guilt  was  lifted  from  his  shoulders,  and  by 
Harry  Feversham's  own  act.  The  news  was  not  al- 
together unexpected,  but  the  lightness  of  spirit  which 
he  felt  showed  him  how  much  he  had  counted  upon 
its  coming. 

"  I  knew,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  knew  he  wouldn't 
fail.  Oh,  I  am  glad  you  came  to-day,  Colonel  Dur- 
rance.  It  was  partly  my  fault,  you  see,  that  Harry 
Feversham  ever  incurred  that  charge  of  cowardice. 
I  could  have  spoken  —  there  was  an  opportunity  on 
one  of  the  Crimean  nights  at  Broad  Place,  and  a  word 
might  have  been  of  value  —  and  I  held  my  tongue. 
I  have  never  ceased  to  blame  myself.  I  am  grateful 
for  your  news.  You  have  the  particulars  ?  Captain 
Willoughby  was  in  peril,  and  Harry  came  to  his  aid  ?  " 

"  No,  it  was  not  that  exactly." 

"Tell  me!     Tell  me  !  " 

He  feared  to  miss  a  word.  Durrance  related  the 
story  of  the  Gordon  letters,  and  their  recovery  by 
Feversham.    It  was  all  too  short  for  Lieutenant  Sutch. 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  glad  you  came,"  he  cried. 

"You  understand  at  all  events,"  said  Durrance, 
"  that  I  have  not  come  to  repeat  to  you  the  questions 
I  asked  in  the  courtyard  of  my  club.  I  am  able,  on 
the  contrary,  to  give  you  information." 

Sutch  spoke  to  the  pony  and  drove  on.  He  had 
said   nothing  which   could   reveal   to    Durrance   his 


z86  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

fear  that  to  renew  those  questions  was  the  object 
of  his  visit ;  and  he  was  a  little  perplexed  at  the  ac- 
curacy of  Durrance's  conjecture.  But  the  great  news 
to  which  he  had  listened  hindered  him  from  giving 
thought  to  that  perplexity. 

"  So  Miss  Eustace  told  you  the  story,"  he  said, 
"  and  showed  you  the  feather  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Durrance.  "  She  said  not  a 
word  about  it,  she  never  showed  me  the  feather,  she 
even  forbade  Willoughby  to  hint  of  it,  she  sent  him 
away  from  Devonshire  before  I  knew  that  he  had 
come.  You  are  disappointed  at  that,"  he  added 
quickly. 

Lieutenant  Sutch  was  startled.  It  was  true  he  was 
disappointed;  he  was  jealous  of  Durrance,  he  wished 
Harry  Feversham  to  stand  first  in  the  girl's  thoughts. 
It  was  for  her  sake  that  Harry  had  set  about  his  diffi- 
cult and  perilous  work.  Sutch  wished  her  to  remem- 
ber him  as  he  remembered  her.  Therefore  he  was 
disappointed  that  she  did  not  at  once  come  with  her 
news  to  Durrance  and  break  off  their  engagement. 
It  would  be  hard  for  Durrance,  no  doubt,  but  that 
could  not  be  helped. 

"  Then  how  did  you  learn  the  story  ? "  asked 
Sutch. 

"  Some  one  else  told  me.  I  was  told  that  Wil- 
loughby had  come,  and  that  he  had  brought  a  white 
feather,  and  that  Ethne  had  taken  it  from  him. 
Never  mind  by  whom.  That  gave  me  a  clue.  I 
lay  in  wait  for  Willoughby  in  London.  He  is  not 
very  clever ;  he  tried  to  obey  Ethne's  command  of 
silence,  but  I  managed  to  extract  the  information 
I  wanted.     The  rest  of  the  story  I  was  able  to  put 


SUTCH  COMES   OFF  THE  HALF-PAT  LIST    287 

together  by  myself.  Ethne  now  and  then  was  off  her 
guard.  You  are  surprised  that  I  was  clever  enough 
to  find  out  the  truth  by  the  exercise  of  my  own  wits  ?  " 
said  Durrance,  with  a  laugh. 

Lieutenant  Sutch  jumped  in  his  seat.  It  was  mere 
chance,  of  course,  that  Durrance  continually  guessed 
with  so  singular  an  accuracy ;  still  it  was  uncomfort- 
able. 

"  I  have  said  nothing  which  could  in  any  way  sug- 
gest that  I  was  surprised,"  he  said  testily. 

"  That  is  quite  true,  but  you  are  none  the  less  sur- 
prised," continued  Durrance.  "  I  don't  blame  you. 
You  could  not  know  that  it  is  only  since  I  have  been 
blind  that  I  have  begun  to  see.  Shall  I  give  you  an 
instance  ?  This  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  ever  come 
into  this  neighbourhood  or  got  out  at  your  station. 
Well,  I  can  tell  you  that  you  have  driven  me  up  a  hill 
between  forests  of  pines,  and  are  now  driving  me 
across  open  country  of  heather." 

Sutch  turned  quickly  towards  Durrance. 

"The  hill,  of  course,  you  would  notice.  But  the 
pines  ? 

"  The  air  was  close.  I  knew  there  were  trees.  I 
guessed  they  were  pines." 

"  And  the  open  country  ?  " 

"  The  wind  blows  clear  across  it.  There's  a  dry 
stiff  rustle  besides.  I  have  never  heard  quite  that 
sound  except  when  the  wind  blows  across  heather." 

He  turned  the  conversation  back  to  Harry  Fever- 
sham  and  his  disappearance,  and  the  cause  of  his 
disappearance.  He  made  no  mention,  Sutch  re- 
marked, of  the  fourth  white  feather  which  Ethne  her- 
self had  added  to  the  three.     But  the  history  of  the 


288  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

three  which  had  come  by  the  post  to  Ramelton  he 
knew  to  its  last  letter. 

"  I  was  acquainted  with  the  men  who  sent  them," 
he  said,  "Trench,  Castleton,  Willoughby.  I  met  them 
daily  in  Suakin,  just  ordinary  officers,  one  rather 
shrewd,  the  second  quite  commonplace,  the  third  dis- 
tinctly stupid.  I  saw  them  going  quietly  about  the 
routine  of  their  work.  It  seems  quite  strange  to  me 
now.  There  should  have  been  some  mark  set  upon 
them,  setting  them  apart  as  the  particular  messengers 
of  fate.  But  there  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  They 
were  j  ust  ordinary  prosaic  regimental  officers.  Doesn't 
it  seem  strange  to  you,  too  ?  Here  were  men  who 
could  deal  out  misery  and  estrangement  and  years  of 
suffering,  without  so  much  as  a  single  word  spoken, 
and  they  went  about  their  business,  and  you  never 
knew  them  from  other  men  until  a  long  while  after- 
wards some  consequence  of  what  they  did,  and  very 
likely  have  forgotten,  rises  up  and  strikes  you  down." 

"Yes,"  said  Sutch.  "That  thought  has  occurred 
to  me."  He  fell  to  wondering  again  what  object  had 
brought  Durrance  into  Hampshire,  since  he  did  not 
come  for  information ;  but  Durrance  did  not  immedi- 
ately enlighten  him.  They  reached  the  lieutenant's 
house.  It  stood  alone  by  the  roadside  looking  across 
a  wide  country  of  downs.  Sutch  took  Durrance  over 
his  stable  and  showed  him  his  horses,  he  explained  to 
him  the  arrangement  of  his  garden  and  the  grouping 
of  his  flowers.  Still  Durrance  said  nothing  about 
the  reason  of  his  visit ;  he  ceased  to  talk  of  Harry 
Feversham  and  assumed  a  great  interest  in  the  lieu- 
tenant's garden.  But  indeed  the  interest  was  not  all 
pretence.     These  two  men  had  something  in  common, 


SUTCH  COMES  OFF  THE  HALF-PAT  LIST    289 

as  Sutch  had  pointed  out  at  the  moment  of  their  meet- 
ing—  the  abrupt  termination  of  a  promising  career. 
One  of  the  two  was  old,  the  other  comparatively 
young,  and  the  younger  man  was  most  curious  to  dis- 
cover how  his  elder  had  managed  to  live  through  the 
dragging  profitless  years  alone.  The  same  sort  of 
lonely  life  lay  stretched  out  before  Durrance,  and  he 
was  anxious  to  learn  what  alleviations  could  be 
practised,  what  small  interests  could  be  discovered, 
how  best  it  could  be  got  through. 

"You  don't  live  within  sight  of  the  sea,"  he  said  at 
last  as  they  stood  together,  after  making  the  round  of 
the  garden,  at  the  door. 

"  No,  I  dare  not,"  said  Sutch,  and  Durrance  nodded 
his  head  in  complete  sympathy  and  comprehension. 

"  I  understand.  You  care  for  it  too  much.  You 
would  have  the  full  knowledge  of  your  loss  presented 
to  your  eyes  each  moment." 

They  went  into  the  house.  Still  Durrance  did  not 
refer  to  the  object  of  his  visit.  They  dined  together 
and  sat  over  their  wine  alone.  Still  Durrance  did  not 
speak.  It  fell  to  Lieutenant  Sutch  to  recur  to  the 
subject  of  Harry  Feversham.  A  thought  had  been 
gaining  strength  in  his  mind  all  that  afternoon,  and 
since  Durrance  would  not  lead  up  to  its  utterance,  he 
spoke  it  out  himself. 

"  Harry  Feversham  must  come  back  to  England. 
He  has  done  enough  to  redeem  his  honour." 

Harry  Feversham's  return  might  be  a  little  awk- 
ward for  Durrance,  and  Lieutenant  Sutch  with  that 
notion  in  his  mind  blurted  out  his  sentences  awk- 
wardly, but  to  his  surprise  Durrance  answered  him  at 
once. 

v 


290  THE    FOUR   FEATHERS 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  say  that.  I  wanted 
you  to  realise  without  any  suggestion  of  mine  that 
Harry  must  return.     It  was  with  that  object  that  I 

came." 

Lieutenant  Sutch's  relief  was  great.  He  had  been 
prepared  for  an  objection,  at  the  best  he  only  ex- 
pected a  reluctant  acquiescence,  and  in  the  greatness 
of  his  relief  he  spoke  again  :  — 

"  His  return  will  not  really  trouble  you  or  your 
wife,  since  Miss  Eustace  has  forgotten  him." 

Durrance  shook  his  head. 

"  She  has  not  forgotten  him." 

"  But  she  kept  silence,  even  after  Willoughby  had 
brought  the  feather  back.  You  told  me  so  this  after- 
noon. She  said  not  a  word  to  you.  She  forbade 
Willoughby  to  tell  you." 

"  She  is  very  true,  very  loyal,"  returned  Durrance. 
"  She  has  pledged  herself  to  me,  and  nothing  in  the 
world,  no  promise  of  happiness,  no  thought  of  Harry, 
would  induce  her  to  break  her  pledge.  I  know  her. 
But  I  know  too  that  she  only  plighted  herself  to  me 
out  of  pity,  because  I  was  blind.  I  know  that  she 
has  not  forgotten  Harry." 

Lieutenant  Sutch  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled. 
He  could  have  laughed  outright.  He  asked  for  no  de- 
tails, he  did  not  doubt  Durrance's  words.  He  was  over- 
whelmed with  pride  in  that  Harry  Feversham,  in  spite 
of  his  disgrace  and  his  long  absence,  —  Harry  Fever- 
sham,  his  favourite,  had  retained  this  girl's  love.  No 
doubt  she  was  very  true,  very  loyal.  Sutch  endowed 
her  on  the  instant  with  all  the  good  qualities  pos- 
sible to  a  human  being.  The  nobler  she  was,  the 
greater  was    his   pride  that    Harry   Feversham   still 


SUTCH  COMES  OFF  THE  HALF-PAT  LIST    291 

retained  her  heart.  Lieutenant  Sutch  fairly  revelled 
in  this  new  knowledge.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered 
at  after  all,  he  thought ;  there  was  nothing  astonish- 
ing in  the  girl's  fidelity  to  any  one  who  was  really 
acquainted  with  Harry  Feversham,  it  was  only  an 
occasion  of  great  gladness.  Durrance  would  have  to 
get  out  of  the  way,  of  course,  but  then  he  should 
never  have  crossed  Harry  Feversham's  path.  Sutch 
was  cruel  with  the  perfect  cruelty  of  which  love  alone 
is  capable. 

"  You  are  very  glad  of  that,"  said  Durrance,  quietly. 
"  Very  glad  that  Ethne  has  not  forgotten  him.  It  is 
a  little  hard  on  me,  perhaps,  who  have  not  much  left. 
It  would  have  been  less  hard  if  two  years  ago  you 
had  told  me  the  whole  truth,  when  I  asked  it  of 
you  that  summer  evening  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
club." 

Compunction  seized  upon  Lieutenant  Sutch.  The 
gentleness  with  which  Durrance  had  spoken,  and  the 
quiet  accent  of  weariness  in  his  voice,  brought  home 
to  him  something  of  the  cruelty  of  his  great  joy  and 
pride.  After  all,  what  Durrance  said  was  true.  If 
he  had  broken  his  word  that  night  at  the  club,  if  he 
had  related  Feversham's  story,  Durrance  would  have 
been  spared  a  great  deal. 

"  I  couldn't !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  promised  Harry 
in  the  most  solemn  way  that  I  would  tell  no  one  until 
he  came  back  himself.  I  was  sorely  tempted  to  tell 
you,  but  I  had  given  my  word.  Even  if  Harry  never 
came  back,  if  I  obtained  sure  knowledge  that  he  was 
dead,  even  then  I  was  only  to  tell  his  father,  and  even 
his  father  not  all  that  could  be  told  on  his  behalf." 
He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  went  to  the  window. 


292  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  It  is  hot  in  here,"  he  said.  "Do  you  mind?"  and 
without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  loosed  the  catch 
and  raised  the  sash.  For  some  little  while  he  stood 
by  the  open  window,  silent,  undecided.  Durrance 
plainly  did  not  know  of  the  fourth  feather  broken 
off  from  Ethne's  fan,  he  had  not  heard  the  conversa- 
tion between  himself  and  Feversham  in  the  grill-room 
of  the  Criterion  Restaurant.  There  were  certain 
words  spoken  by  Harry  upon  that  occasion  which  it 
seemed  fair  Durrance  should  now  hear.  Compunc- 
tion and  pity  bade  Sutch  repeat  them,  his  love  of 
Harry  Feversham  enjoined  him  to  hold  his  tongue. 
He  could  plead  again  that  Harry  had  forbidden  him 
speech,  but  the  plea  would  be  an  excuse  and  nothing 
more.  He  knew  very  well  that  were  Harry  present, 
Harry  would  repeat  them,  and  Lieutenant  Sutch 
knew  what  harm  silence  had  already  done.  He 
mastered  his  love  in  the  end  and  came  back  to  the 
table. 

"There  is  something  which  it  is  fair  you  should 
know,"  he  said.  "  When  Harry  went  away  to  redeem 
his  honour,  if  the  opportunity  should  come,  he  had 
no  hope,  indeed  he  had  no  wish,  that  Miss  Eustace 
should  wait  for  him.  She  was  the  spur  to  urge  him, 
but  she  did  not  know  even  that.  He  did  not  wish 
her  to  know.  He  had  no  claim  upon  her.  There 
was  not  even  a  hope  in  his  mind  that  she  might  at 
some  time  be  his  friend  —  in  this  life,  at  all  events. 
When  he  went  away  from  Ramelton,  he  parted  from 
her,  according  to  his  thought,  for  all  his  mortal 
life.  It  is  fair  that  you  should  know  that.  Miss 
Eustace,  you  tell  me,  is  not  the  woman  to  withdraw 
from  her  pledged  word.     Well,  what  I  said  to  you 


SUTCH  COMES   OFF  THE  HALF-PAT  LIST    293 

that  evening  at  the  club  I  now  repeat.  There  will 
be  no  disloyalty  to  friendship  if  you  marry  Miss 
Eustace." 

It  was  a  difficult  speech  for  Lieutenant  Sutch  to 
utter,  and  he  was  very  glad  when  he  had  uttered  it. 
Whatever  answer  he  received,  it  was  right  that  the 
words  should  be  spoken,  and  he  knew  that,  had  he 
refrained  from  speech,  he  would  always  have  suffered 
remorse  for  his  silence.  None  the  less,  however,  he 
waited  in  suspense  for   the  answer. 

"  It  is  kind  of  you  to  tell  me  that,"  said  Durrance, 
and  he  smiled  at  the  lieutenant  with  a  great  friend- 
liness. "  For  I  can  guess  what  the  words  cost  you. 
But  you  have  done  Harry  Feversham  no  harm  by 
speaking  them.  For,  as  I  told  you,  Ethne  has  not 
forgotten  him ;  and  I  have  my  point  of  view.  Mar- 
riage between  a  man  blind  like  myself  and  any 
woman,  let  alone  Ethne,  could  not  be  fair  or  right 
unless  upon  both  sides  there  was  more  than  friend- 
ship. Harry  must  return  to  England.  He  must 
return  to  Ethne,  too.  You  must  go  to  Egypt  and  do 
what  you  can  to  bring  him  back." 

Sutch  was  relieved  of  his  suspense.  He  had  obeyed 
his  conscience  and  yet  done  Harry  Feversham  no  dis- 
service. 

"  I  will  start  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  Harry  is  still 
in  the  Soudan  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Why  of  course  ?  "  asked  Sutch.  "  Willoughby 
withdrew  his  accusation  ;  Castleton  is  dead  —  he  was 
killed  at  Tamai ;  and  Trench  —  I  know,  for  I  have 
followed  all  these  three  men's  careers  —  Trench  is  a 
prisoner  in  Omdurman." 


294  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  So  is  Harry  Feversham." 

Sutch  stared  at  his  visitor.  For  a  moment  he  did 
not  understand,  the  shock  had  been  too  sudden  and 
abrupt.  Then  after  comprehension  dawned  upon  him, 
he  refused  to  believe.  The  folly  of  that  refusal  in 
its  turn  became  apparent.  He  sat  down  in  his  chair 
opposite  to  Durrance,  awed  into  silence.  And  the 
silence  lasted  for  a  long  while. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ? "  he  said  at  length. 

"  I  have  thought  it  out,"  returned  Durrance.  "  You 
must  go  to  Suakin.  I  will  give  you  a  letter  to 
Willoughby,  who  is  Deputy-Governor,  and  another  to 
a  Greek  merchant  there  whom  I  know,  and  on 
whom  you  can  draw  for  as  much  money  as  you 
require." 

"That's  good  of  you,  Durrance,  upon  my  word," 
Sutch  interrupted  ;  and  forgetting  that  he  was  talking 
to  a  blind  man  he  held  out  his  hand  across  the  table. 
"  I  would  not  take  a  penny  if  I  could  help  it ;  but 
I  am  a  poor  man.  Upon  my  soul  it's  good  of 
you." 

"  Just  listen  to  me,  please,"  said  Durrance.  He 
could  not  see  the  outstretched  hand,  but  his  voice 
showed  that  he  would  hardly  have  taken  it  if  he 
had.  He  was  striking  the  final  blow  at  his  chance 
of  happiness.  But  he  did  not  wish  to  be  thanked  for 
it.  "  At  Suakin  you  must  take  the  Greek  merchant's 
advice  and  organise  a  rescue  as  best  you  can.  It 
will  be  a  long  business,  and  you  will  have  many  dis- 
appointments before  you  succeed.  But  you  must  stick 
to  it  until  you  do." 

Upon  that  the  two  men  fell  to  a  discussion  of  the 
details  of  the  length  of  time  which  it  would  take  for 


SUTCH  COMES   OFF  THE  HALF  PAT  LIST    295 

a  message  from  Suakin  to  be  carried  into  Omdurman, 
of  the  untrustworthiness  of  some  Arab  spies,  and  of 
the  risks  which  the  trustworthy  ran.  Sutch's  house 
was  searched  for  maps,  the  various  routes  by  which 
the  prisoners  might  escape  were  described  by  Dur- 
rance  —  the  great  forty  days'  road  from  Kordofan  on 
the  west,  the  straight  track  from  Omdurman  to  Ber- 
ber and  from  Berber  to  Suakin,  and  the  desert  jour- 
ney across  the  Belly  of  Stones  by  the  wells  of  Murat 
to  Korosko.  It  was  late  before  Durrance  had  told  all 
that  he  thought  necessary  and  Sutch  had  exhausted 
his  questions. 

"  You  will  stay  at  Suakin  as  your  base  of  opera- 
tions," said  Durrance,  as  he  closed  up  the  maps. 

"Yes,"  answered  Sutch,  and  he  rose  from  his  chair. 
"  I  will  start  as  soon  as  you  give  me  the  letters." 

"  I  have  them  already  written." 

"  Then  I  will  start  to-morrow.  You  may  be  sure 
I  will  let  both  you  and  Miss  Eustace  know  how  the 
attempt  progresses." 

"  Let  me  know,"  said  Durrance,  "  but  not  a  whisper 
of  it  to  Ethne.  She  knows  nothing  of  my  plan,  and 
she  must  know  nothing  until  Feversham  comes  back 
himself.  She  has  her  point  of  view,  as  I  have  mine. 
Two  lives  shall  not  be  spoilt  because  of  her.  That's 
her  resolve.  She  believes  that  to  some  degree  she 
was  herself  the  cause  of  Harry  Feversham's  disgrace 
—  that  but  for  her  he  would  not  have  resigned  his 
commission." 

"Yes." 

"  You  agree  with  that  ?  At  all  events  she  believes 
it.  So  there's  one  life  spoilt  because  of  her.  Sup- 
pose now  I  go  to  her  and  say :  '  I  know  that  you  pre- 


296  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

tend  out  of  your  charity  and  kindness  to  care  for  me, 
but  in  your  heart  you  are  no  more  than  my  friend,' 
why,  I  hurt  her,  and  cruelly.  For  there's  all  that's  left 
of  the  second  life  spoilt  too.  But  bring  back  Fever- 
sham  !  Then  I  can  speak  —  then  I  can  say  freely : 
•  Since  you  are  just  my  friend,  I  would  rather  be  your 
friend  and  nothing  more.  So  neither  life  will  be 
spoilt  at  all.'  " 

"  I  understand,"  said  Sutch.  "  It's  the  way  a  man 
should  speak.  So  till  Feversham  comes  back  the  pre- 
tence remains.  She  pretends  to  care  for  you,  you  pre- 
tend you  do  not  know  she  thinks  of  Harry.  While  I 
go  eastwards  to  bring  him  home,  you  go  back  to  her." 

"  No,"  said  Durrance,  "  I  can't  go  back.  The  strain 
of  keeping  up  the  pretence  was  telling  too  much  on 
both  of  us.  I  go  to  Wiesbaden.  An  oculist  lives 
there  who  serves  me  for  an  excuse.  I  shall  wait  at 
Wiesbaden  until  you  bring  Harry  home." 

Sutch  opened  the  door,  and  the  two  men  went  out 
into  the  hall.  The  servants  had  long  since  gone  to 
bed.  A  couple  of  candlesticks  stood  upon  a  table 
beside  a  lamp.  More  than  once  Lieutenant  Sutch 
had  forgotten  that  his  visitor  was  blind,  and  he  forgot 
the  fact  again.  He  lighted  both  candles  and  held  out 
one  to  his  companion.  Durrance  knew  from  the 
noise  of  Sutch's  movements  what  he  was  doing. 

"  I  have  no  need  of  a  candle,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
The  light  fell  full  upon  his  face,  and  Sutch  suddenly 
remarked  how  tired  it  looked  and  old.  There  were 
deep  lines  from  the  nostrils  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth, 
and  furrows  in  the  cheeks.  His  hair  was  grey  as 
an  old  man's  hair.  Durrance  had  himself  made  so 
little  of  his  misfortune  this  evening  that  Sutch  had 


SUTCH  COMES   OFF  THE  HALF-PAT  LIST    297 

rather  come  to  rate  it  as  a  small  thing  in  the  sum  of 
human  calamities,  but  he  read  his  mistake  now  in 
Durrance's  face.  Just  above  the  flame  of  the  candle, 
framed  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall,  it  showed  white 
and  drawn  and  haggard  —  the  face  of  an  old  worn 
man  set  upon  the  stalwart  shoulders  of  a  man  in  the 
prime  of  his  years. 

"  I  have  said  very  little  to  you  in  the  way  of  sym- 
pathy," said  Sutch.  "  I  did  not  know  that  you  would 
welcome  it.     But  I  am  sorry.     I  am  very  sorry." 

"Thanks,"  said  Durrance,  simply.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  or  two  silently  in  front  of  his  host.  "When 
I  was  in  the  Soudan,  travelling  through  the  deserts, 
I  used  to  pass  the  white  skeletons  of  camels  lying  by 
the  side  of  the  track.  Do  you  know  the  camel's  way  ? 
He  is  an  unfriendly,  graceless  beast,  but  he  marches  to 
within  an  hour  of  his  death.  He  drops  and  dies  with 
the  load  upon  his  back.  It  seemed  to  me,  even  in 
those  days,  the  right  and  enviable  way  to  finish.  You 
can  imagine  how  I  must  envy  them  that  advantage 
of  theirs  now.     Good  night." 

He  felt  for  the  bannister  and  walked  up  the  stairs 
to  his  room. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

GENERAL    FEVERSHAM's    PORTRAITS    ARE    APPEASED 

Lieutenant  Sutch,  though  he  went  late  to  bed, 
was  early  astir  in  the  morning.  He  roused  the 
household,  packed  and  repacked  his  clothes,  and 
made  such  a  bustle  and  confusion  that  everything  to 
be  done  took  twice  its  ordinary  time  in  the  doing. 
There  never  had  been  so  much  noise  and  flurry  in 
the  house  during  all  the  thirty  years  of  Lieutenant 
Sutch's  residence.  His  servants  could  not  satisfy 
him,  however  quickly  they  scuttled  about  the  pas- 
sages in  search  of  this  or  that  forgotten  article  of  his 
old  travelling  outfit.  Sutch,  indeed,  was  in  a  boyish 
fever  of  excitement.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
perhaps.  For  thirty  years  he  had  lived  inactive  —  on 
the  world's  half-pay  list,  to  quote  his  own  phrase ; 
and  at  the  end  of  all  that  long  time,  miraculously, 
something  had  fallen  to  him  to  do  —  something  im- 
portant, something  which  needed  energy  and  tact  and 
decision.  Lieutenant  Sutch,  in  a  word,  was  to  be 
employed  again.  He  was  feverish  to  begin  his  em- 
ployment. He  dreaded  the  short  interval  before  he 
could  begin,  lest  some  hindrance  should  unexpectedly 
occur  and  relegate  him  again  to  inactivity. 

"  I  shall  be  ready  this  afternoon,"  he  said  briskly 
to  Durrance  as  they  breakfasted.     "  I  shall  catch  the 

298 


FEFERSHAM'S  PORTRAITS  ARE  APPEASED    299 

night  mail  to  the  Continent.  We  might  go  up  to 
London  together;  for  London  is  on  your  way  to 
Wiesbaden." 

"  No,"  said  Durrance,  "  I  have  just  one  more  visit 
to  pay  in  England.  I  did  not  think  of  it  until  I  was 
in  bed  last  night.     You  put  it  into  my  head." 

"  Oh,"  observed  Sutch,  "  and  whom  do  you  propose 
to  visit  ?  " 

"  General  Feversham,"  replied  Durrance. 

Sutch  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  and  looked  with 
surprise  at  his  companion.  "Why  in  the  world  do 
you  wish  to  see  him  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  want  to  tell  him  how  Harry  has  redeemed  his 
honour,  how  he  is  still  redeeming  it.  You  said  last 
night  that  you  were  bound  by  a  promise  not  to  tell 
him  anything  of  his  son's  intention,  or  even  of  his 
son's  success  until  the  son  returned  himself.  But  I 
am  bound  by  no  promise.  I  think  such  a  promise 
bears  hardly  on  the  general.  There  is  nothing  in 
the  world  which  could  pain  him  so  much  as  the  proof 
that  his  son  was  a  coward.  Harry  might  have 
robbed  and  murdered.  The  old  man  would  have 
preferred  him  to  have  committed  both  these  crimes. 
I  shall  cross  into  Surrey  this  morning  and  tell  him 
that  Harry  never  was  a  coward." 

Sutch  shook  his  head. 

"  He  will  not  be  able  to  understand.  He  will  be 
very  grateful  to  you,  of  course.  He  will  be  very  glad 
that  Harry  has  atoned  his  disgrace,  but  he  will  never 
understand  why  he  incurred  it.  And,  after  all,  he  will 
only  be  glad  because  the  family  honour  is  restored." 

"  I  don't  agree,"  said  Durrance.  "  I  believe  the 
old  man  is  rather  fond  of  his  son,  though  to  be  sure 


3oo  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

he   would    never   admit   it.      I    rather   like    General 
Feversham." 

Lieutenant  Sutch  had  seen  very  little  of  General 
Feversham  during  the  last  five  years.  He  could  not 
forgive  him  for  his  share  in  the  responsibility  of 
Harry  Feversham's  ruin.  Had  the  general  been 
capable  of  sympathy  with  and  comprehension  of  the 
boy's  nature,  the  white  feathers  would  never  have 
been  sent  to  Ramelton.  Sutch  pictured  the  old  man 
sitting  sternly  on  his  terrace  at  Broad  Place,  quite 
unaware  that  he  was  himself  at  all  to  blame,  and  on 
the  contrary,  rather  inclined  to  pose  as  a  martyr,  in 
that  his  son  had  turned  out  a  shame  and  disgrace  to 
all  the  dead  Fevershams  whose  portraits  hung  darkly 
on  the  high  walls  of  the  hall.  Sutch  felt  that  he 
could  never  endure  to  talk  patiently  with  General 
Feversham,  and  he  was  sure  that  no  argument  would 
turn  that  stubborn  man  from  his  convictions.  He 
had  not  troubled  at  all  to  consider  whether  the  news 
which  Durrance  had  brought  should  be  handed  on  to 
Broad  Place. 

"  You  are  very  thoughtful  for  others,"  he  said  to 
Durrance. 

"  It's  not  to  my  credit.  I  practise  thoughtfulness 
for  others  out  of  an  instinct  of  self-preservation,  that's 
all,"  said  Durrance.  "Selfishness  is  the  natural  and 
encroaching  fault  of  the  blind.  I  know  that,  so  I  am 
careful  to  guard  against  it." 

He  travelled  accordingly  that  morning  by  branch 
lines  from  Hampshire  into  Surrey,  and  came  to  Broad 
Place  in  the  glow  of  the  afternoon.  General  Fever- 
sham was  now  within  a  few  months  of  his  eightieth 
year,  and  though  his  back  was  as  stiff  and  his  figure 


FEFERSHAM'S  PORTRAITS  ARE  APPEASED    301 

as  erect  as  on  that  night  now  so  many  years  ago  when 
he  first  presented  Harry  to  his  Crimean  friends,  he 
was  shrunken  in  stature,  and  his  face  seemed  to 
have  grown  small.  Durrance  had  walked  with  the 
general  upon  his  terrace  only  two  years  ago,  and 
blind  though  he  was,  he  noticed  a  change  within  this 
interval  of  time.  Old  Feversham  walked  with  a 
heavier  step,  and  there  had  come  a  note  of  puerility 
into  his  voice. 

"You  have  joined  the  veterans  before  your  time, 
Durrance,"  he  said.  "  I  read  of  it  in  a  newspaper. 
I  would  have  written  had  I  known  where  to  write." 

If  he  had  any  suspicion  of  Durrance's  visit,  he  gave 
no  sign  of  it.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  tea  was  brought 
into  the  great  hall  where  the  portraits  hung.  He 
asked  after  this  and  that  officer  in  the  Soudan  with 
whom  he  was  acquainted,  he  discussed  the  iniquities 
of  the  War  Office,  and  feared  that  the  country  was 
going  to  the  deuce. 

"Everything  through  ill-luck  or  bad  management 
is  going  to  the  devil,  sir,"  he  exclaimed  irritably. 
"  Even  you,  Durrance,  you  are  not  the  same  man 
who  walked  with  me  on  my  terrace  two  years  ago." 

The  general  had  never  been  remarkable  for  tact, 
and  the  solitary  life  he  led  had  certainly  brought  no 
improvement.  Durrance  could  have  countered  with 
a  tie  quoque,  but  he  refrained. 

"  But  I  come  upon  the  same  business,"  he  said. 

Feversham  sat  up  stiffly  in  his  chair. 

"  And  I  give  you  the  same  answer.  I  have  nothing 
to  say  about  Harry  Feversham.  I  will  not  discuss 
him." 

He  spoke  in  his  usual  hard  and  emotionless  voice. 


3oz  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

He  might  have  been  speaking  of  a  stranger.  Even 
the  name  was  uttered  without  the  slightest  hint  of 
sorrow.  Durrance  began  to  wonder  whether  the 
fountains  of  affection  had  not  been  altogether  dried 
up  in  General  Feversham's  heart. 

"It  would  not  please  you,  then,  to  know  where 
Harry  Feversham  has  been,  and  how  he  has  lived 
during  the  last  five  years  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause  —  not  a  long  pause,  but  still  a 
pause  —  before  General  Feversham  answered:  — 

"  Not  in  the  least,  Colonel  Durrance." 

The  answer  was  uncompromising,  but  Durrance 
relied  upon  the  pause  which  preceded  it. 

"  Nor  on  what  business  he  has  been  engaged  ?  "  he 
continued. 

"  I  am  not  interested  in  the  smallest  degree.  I  do 
not  wish  him  to  starve,  and  my  solicitor  tells  me  that 
he  draws  his  allowance.  I  am  content  with  that 
knowledge,  Colonel  Durrance." 

"  I  will  risk  your  anger,  General,"  said  Durrance. 
"There  are  times  when  it  is  wise  to  disobey  one's 
superior  officer.  This  is  one  of  the  times.  Of  course 
you  can  turn  me  out  of  the  house.  Otherwise  I  shall 
relate  to  you  the  history  of  your  son  and  my  friend 
since  he  disappeared  from  England." 

General  Feversham  laughed. 

"Of  course,  I  can't  turn  you  out  of  the  house," 
he  said;  and  he  added  severely,  "But  I  warn  you 
that  you  are  taking  an  improper  advantage  of  your 
position  as  my  guest." 

"Yes,  there  is  no  doubt  of  that,"  Durrance 
answered  calmly;  and  he  told  his  story  —  the  re- 
covery of  the  Gordon  letters  from  Berber,  his  own 


FEFERSHAM'S  PORTRAITS  ARE  APPEASED    303 

meeting  with  Harry  Feversham  at  Wadi  Haifa,  and 
Harry's  imprisonment  at  Omdurman.  He  brought 
it  down  to  that  very  day,  for  he  ended  with  the  news 
of  Lieutenant  Sutch's  departure  for  Suakin.  General 
Feversham  heard  the  whole  account  without  an  inter- 
ruption, without  even  stirring  in  his  chair.  Durrance 
could  not  tell  in  what  spirit  he  listened,  but  he  drew 
some  comfort  from  the  fact  that  he  did  listen  and 
without  argument. 

For  some  while  after  Durrance  had  finished,  the 
general  sat  silent.  He  raised  his  hand  to  his  fore- 
head and  shaded  his  eyes  as  though  the  man  who 
had  spoken  could  see,  and  thus  he  remained.  Even 
when  he  did  speak,  he  did  not  take  his  hand  away. 
Pride  forbade  him  to  show  to  those  portraits  on  the 
walls  that  he  was  capable  even  of  so  natural  a  weak- 
ness as  joy  at  the  reconquest  of  honour  by  his  son. 

"What  I  don't  understand,"  he  said  slowly,  "is 
why  Harry  ever  resigned  his  commission.  I  could 
not  understand  it  before ;  I  understand  it  even  less 
now  since  you  have  told  me  of  his  great  bravery.  It 
is  one  of  the  queer  inexplicable  things.  They  happen, 
and  there's  all  that  can  be  said.  But  I  am  very  glad 
that  you  compelled  me  to  listen  to  you,  Durrance." 

"  I  did  it  with  a  definite  object.  It  is  for  you  to 
say,  of  course,  but  for  my  part  I  do  not  see  why 
Harry  should  not  come  home  and  enter  in  again  to 
all  that  he  lost." 

"  He  cannot  regain  everything,"  said  Feversham. 
"  It  is  not  right  that  he  should.  He  committed  the 
sin,  and  he  must  pay.  He  cannot  regain  his  career 
for  one  thing." 

"  No,  that  is  true ;  but  he  can  find  another.     He 


304  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

is  not  yet  so  old  but  that  he  can  find  another.  And 
that  is  all  that  he  will  have  lost." 

General  Feversham  now  took  his  hand  away  and 
moved  in  his  chair.  He  looked  quickly  at  Durrance ; 
he  opened  his  mouth  to  ask  a  question,  but  changed 
his  mind. 

"Well,"  he  said  briskly,  and  as  though  the  matter 
were  of  no  particular  importance,  "  if  Sutch  can 
manage  Harry's  escape  from  Omdurman,  I  see  no 
reason,  either,  why  he  should  not  come  home." 

Durrance  rose  from  his  chair.  "  Thank  you, 
General.  If  you  can  have  me  driven  to  the  station,  I 
can  catch  a  train  to  town.     There's  one  at  six." 

"  But  you  will  stay  the  night,  surely,"  cried  General 
Feversham. 

"  It  is  impossible.  I  start  for  Wiesbaden  early  to- 
morrow." 

Feversham  rang  the  bell  and  gave  the  order  for  a 
carriage.  "  I  should  have  been  very  glad  if  you  could 
have  stayed,"  he  said,  turning  to  Durrance.  "  I  see 
very  few  people  nowadays.  To  tell  the  truth  I  have 
no  great  desire  to  see  many.  One  grows  old  and  a 
creature  of  customs." 

"  But  you  have  your  Crimean  nights,"  said  Dur- 
rance, cheerfully. 

Feversham  shook  his  head.  "  There  have  been  none 
since  Harry  went  away.  I  had  no  heart  for  them," 
he  said  slowly.  For  a  second  the  mask  was  lifted 
and  his  stern  features  softened.  He  had  suffered 
much  during  these  five  lonely  years  of  his  old  age, 
though  not  one  of  his  acquaintances  up  to  this  moment 
had  ever  detected  a  look  upon  his  face  or  heard  a 
sentence  from  his  lips  which  could  lead  them  so  to 


FEFERSHAM'S  PORTRAITS  ARE  APPEASED    305 

think.  He  had  shown  a  stubborn  front  to  the  world  ; 
he  had  made  it  a  matter  of  pride  that  no  one  should 
be  able  to  point  a  finger  at  him  and  say,  "  There's  a 
man  struck  down."  But  on  this  one  occasion  and  in 
these  few  words  he  revealed  to  Durrance  the  depth 
of  his  grief.  Durrance  understood  how  unendurable 
the  chatter  of  his  friends  about  the  old  days  of  war 
in  the  snowy  trenches  would  have  been.  An  anec- 
dote recalling  some  particular  act  of  courage  would 
hurt  as  keenly  as  a  story  of  cowardice.  The  whole 
history  of  his  lonely  life  at  Broad  Place  was  laid  bare 
in  that  simple  statement  that  there  had  been  no  Cri- 
mean nights  for  he  had  no  heart  for  them. 

The  wheels  of  the  carriage  rattled  on  the  gravel. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Durrance,  and  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Feversham,  "  to  organise  this 
escape  from  Omdurman  will  cost  a  great  deal  of 
money.     Sutch  is  a  poor  man.     Who  is  paying  ?  " 

"I  am." 

Feversham  shook  Durrance's  hand  in  a  firm  clasp. 

"  It  is  my  right,  of  course,"  he  said. 

"Certainly.     I  will  let  you  know  what  it  costs." 

"Thank  you." 

General  Feversham  accompanied  his  visitor  to  the 
door.  There  was  a  question  which  he  had  it  in  his 
mind  to  ask,  but  the  question  was  delicate.  He  stood 
uneasily  on  the  steps  of  the  house. 

"  Didn't  I  hear,  Durrance,"  he  said  with  an  air 
of  carelessness,  "that  you  were  engaged  to  Miss 
Eustace  ? " 

"  I  think  I  said  that  Harry  would  regain  all  that  he 
had  lost  except  his  career,"  said  Durrance. 
x 


3o6  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

He  stepped  into  the  carriage  and  drove  off  to  the 
station.  His  work  was  ended.  There  was  nothing 
more  for  him  now  to  do,  except  to  wait  at  Wiesbaden 
and  pray  that  Sutch  might  succeed.  He  had  devised 
the  plan,  it  remained  for  those  who  had  eyes  where- 
with to  see  to  execute  it. 

General  Feversham  stood  upon  the  steps  looking 
after  the  carriage  until  it  disappeared  among  the 
pines.  Then  he  walked  slowly  back  into  the  hall. 
"  There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  come  back," 
he  said.  He  looked  up  at  the  pictures.  The  dead 
Fevershams  in  their  uniforms  would  not  be  disgraced. 
"No  reason  in  the  world,"  he  said.  "And,  please 
God,  he  will  come  back  soon."  The  dangers  of 
an  escape  from  the  Dervish  city  remote  among  the 
sands  began  to  loom  very  large  on  his  mind.  He 
owned  to  himself  that  he  felt  very  tired  and  old,  and 
many  times  that  night  he  repeated  his  prayer, 
"  Please  God,  Harry  will  come  back  soon,"  as  he  sat 
erect  upon  the  bench  which  had  once  been  his  wife's 
favourite  seat,  and  gazed  out  across  the  moonlit 
country  to  the  Sussex  Downs. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 


THE    HOUSE    OF    STONE 


These  were  the  days  before  the  great  mud  wall 
was  built  about  the  House  of  Stone  in  Omdurman. 
Only  a  thorn  zareeba  as  yet  enclosed  that  noisome 
prison  and  the  space  about  it.  It  stood  upon  the 
eastern  border  of  the  town,  surely  the  most  squalid 
capital  of  any  empire  since  the  world  began.  Not  a 
flower  bloomed  in  a  single  corner.  There  was  no  grass 
nor  the  green  shade  of  any  tree.  A  brown  and  stony 
plain,  burnt  by  the  sun,  and,  built  upon  it  a  straggling 
narrow  city  of  hovels  crawling  with  vermin  and 
poisoned  with  disease. 

Between  the  prison  and  the  Nile  no  houses  stood, 
and  at  this  time  the  prisoners  were  allowed,  so  long 
as  daylight  lasted,  to  stumble  in  their  chains  down 
the  half-mile  of  broken  sloping  earth  to  the  Nile 
bank,  so  that  they  might  draw  water  for  their  use 
and  perform  their  ablutions.  For  the  native  or  the 
negro,  then,  escape  was  not  so  difficult.  For  along 
that  bank  the  dhows  were  moored  and  they  were 
numerous  ;  the  river  traffic,  such  as  there  was  of  it,  had 
its  harbour  there,  and  the  wide  foreshore  made  a  con- 
venient market-place.  Thus  the  open  space  between 
the  river  and  the  House  of  Stone  was  thronged  and 
clamorous  all  day,  captives  rubbed  elbows  with  their 
friends,  concerted  plans  of  escape,  or  then  and  there 

307 


3o8  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

slipped  into  the  thickest  of  the  crowd  and  made  their 
way  to  the  first  blacksmith,  with  whom  the  price  of 
iron  outweighed  any  risk  he  took.  But  even  on  their 
way  to  the  blacksmith's  shop,  their  fetters  called  for 
no  notice  in  Omdurman.  Slaves  wore  them  as  a 
daily  habit,  and  hardly  a  street  in  all  that  long  brown 
treeless  squalid  city  was  ever  free  from  the  clink  of  a 
man  who  walked  in  chains. 

But  for  the  European  escape  was  another  matter. 
There  were  not  so  many  white  prisoners  but  that  each 
was  a  marked  man.  Besides  relays  of  camels  sta- 
tioned through  the  desert,  much  money,  long  prepara- 
tions, and  above  all,  devoted  natives  who  would  risk 
their  lives,  were  the  first  necessities  for  their  evasion. 
The  camels  might  be  procured  and  stationed,  but  it 
did  not  follow  that  their  drivers  would  remain  at  the 
stations  ;  the  long  preparations  might  be  made  and 
the  whip  of  the  gaoler  overset  them  at  the  end  by 
flogging  the  captive  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  on  a 
suspicion  that  he  had  money ;  the  devoted  servant 
might  shrink  at  the  last  moment.  Colonel  Trench 
began  to  lose  all  hope.  His  friends  were  working 
for  him,  he  knew.  For  at  times  the  boy  who  brought 
his  food  into  the  prison  would  bid  him  be  ready ;  at 
times,  too,  when  at  some  parade  of  the  Khalifa's 
troops  he  was  shown  in  triumph  as  an  emblem  of  the 
destiny  of  all  the  Turks,  a  man  perhaps  would  jostle 
against  his  camel  and  whisper  encouragements.  But 
nothing  ever  came  of  the  encouragements.  He  saw 
the  sun  rise  daily  beyond  the  bend  of  the  river  behind 
the  tall  palm  trees  of  Khartum  and  burn  across  the 
sky,  and  the  months  dragged  one  after  the  other. 

On  an  evening  towards  the  end  of  August,  in  that 


THE   HOUSE    OF   STONE  309 

year  when  Durrance  came  home  blind  from  the  Sou- 
dan, he  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  enclosure  watching  the 
sun  drop  westwards  towards  the  plain  with  an  agony 
of  anticipation.  For  however  intolerable  the  heat  and 
burden  of  the  day,  it  was  as  nothing  compared  with  the 
horrors  which  each  night  renewed.  The  moment  of 
twilight  came  and  with  it  Idris  es  Saier,  the  great 
negro  of  the  Gawaamah  tribe,  and  his  fellow-gaolers. 

"  Into  the  House  of  Stone  !  "  he  cried. 

Praying  and  cursing,  with  the  sound  of  the  pitiless 
whips  falling  perpetually  upon  the  backs  of  the  hind- 
most, the  prisoners  jostled  and  struggled  at  the  nar- 
row entrance  to  the  prison  house.  Already  it  was  oc- 
cupied by  some  thirty  captives,  lying  upon  the  swamped 
mud  floor  or  supported  against  the  wall  in  the  last 
extremities  of  weakness  and  disease.  Two  hundred 
more  were  driven  in  at  night  and  penned  there  till 
morning.  The  room  was  perhaps  thirty  feet  square, 
of  which  four  feet  were  occupied  by  a  solid  pillar  sup- 
porting the  roof.  There  was  no  window  in  the  build- 
ing ;  a  few  small  apertures  near  the  roof  made  a 
pretence  of  giving  air,  and  into  this  foul  and  pestilent 
hovel  the  prisoners  were  packed,  screaming  and  fight- 
ing. The  door  was  closed  upon  them,  utter  darkness 
replaced  the  twilight,  so  that  a  man  could  not  distin- 
guish even  the  outlines  of  the  heads  of  the  neighbours 
who  wedged  him  in. 

Colonel  Trench  fought  like  the  rest.  There  was  a 
corner  near  the  door  which  he  coveted  at  that  moment 
with  a  greater  fierceness  of  desire  than  he  had  ever 
felt  in  the  days  when  he  had  been  free.  Once  in  that 
corner,  he  would  have  some  shelter  from  the  blows,  the 
stamping  feet,  the  bruises  of  his  neighbour's  shackles ; 


3io  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

he  would  have,  too,  a  support  against  which  to  lean  his 
back  during  the  ten  interminable  hours  of  suffocation. 

"  If  I  were  to  fall !     If  I  were  to  fall !  " 

That  fear  was  always  with  him  when  he  was  driven 
in  at  night.  It  worked  in  him  like  a  drug  producing 
madness.  For  if  a  man  once  went  down  amid  that 
yelling,  struggling  throng,  he  never  got  up  again  —  he 
was  trampled  out  of  shape.  Trench  had  seen  such 
victims  dragged  from  the  prison  each  morning;  and 
he  was  a  small  man.  Therefore  he  fought  for  his  cor- 
ner in  a  frenzy  like  a  wild  beast,  kicking  with  his  fet- 
ters, thrusting  with  his  elbows,  diving  under  this  big 
man's  arm,  burrowing  between  two  others,  tearing  at 
their  clothes,  using  his  nails,  his  fists,  and  even  strik- 
ing at  heads  with  the  chain  which  dangled  from  the 
iron  ring  about  his  neck.  He  reached  the  corner 
in  the  end,  streaming  with  heat  and  gasping  for 
breath ;  the  rest  of  the  night  he  would  spend  in 
holding  it  against  all  comers. 

"If  I  were  to  fall!"  he  gasped.  "O  God,  if  I 
were  to  fall !  "  and  he  shouted  aloud  to  his  neighbour 
—  for  in  that  clamour  nothing  less  than  a  shout  was 
audible  —  "  Is  it  you,  Ibrahim  ?  "  and  a  like  shout  an- 
swered him,  "  Yes,  Effendi." 

Trench  felt  some  relief.  Between  Ibrahim,  a  great 
tall  Arab  of  the  Hadendoas,  and  Trench,  a  friendship 
born  of  their  common  necessities  had  sprung  up. 
There  were  no  prison  rations  at  Omdurman  ;  each 
captive  was  dependent  upon  his  own  money  or  the 
charity  of  his  friends  outside.  To  Trench  from  time 
to  time  there  came  money  from  his  friends,  brought 
secretly  into  the  prison  by  a  native  who  had  come  up 
from  Assouan  or  Suakin  ;  but  there  were  long  periods 


THE   HOUSE    OF   STONE  311 

during  which  no  help  came  to  him,  and  he  lived 
upon  the  charity  of  the  Greeks  who  had  sworn  con- 
version to  the  Mahdist  faith,  or  starved  with  such 
patience  as  he  could.  There  were  times,  too,  when 
Ibrahim  had  no  friend  to  send  him  his  meal  into  the 
prison.  And  thus  each  man  helped  the  other  in  his 
need.  They  stood  side  by  side  against  the  wall  at 
night. 

"Yes,  Effendi,  I  am  here,"  and  groping  with  his 
hand  in  the  black  darkness,  he  steadied  Trench 
against  the  wall. 

A  fight  of  even  more  than  common  violence  was 
raging  in  an  extreme  corner  of  the  prison,  and  so 
closely  packed  were  the  prisoners  that  with  each 
advance  of  one  combatant  and  retreat  of  the  other, 
the  whole  jostled  crowd  swayed  in  a  sort  of  rhythm, 
from  end  to  end,  from  side  to  side.  But  they  swayed, 
fighting  to  keep  their  feet,  fighting  even  with  their 
teeth,  and  above  the  din  and  noise  of  their  hard 
breathing,  the  clank  of  their  chains,  and  their  impre- 
cations, there  rose  now  and  then  a  wild  sobbing  cry 
for  mercy,  or  an  inhuman  shriek,  stifled  as  soon  as 
uttered,  which  showed  that  a  man  had  gone  down 
beneath  the  stamping  feet.  Missiles,  too,  were  flung 
across  the  prison,  even  to  the  foul  earth  gathered 
from  the  floor,  and  since  none  knew  from  what  quar- 
ter they  were  flung,  heads  were  battered  against  heads 
in  the  effort  to  avoid  them.  And  all  these  things 
happened  in  the  blackest  darkness. 

For  two  hours  Trench  stood  in  that  black  prison 
ringing  with  noise,  rank  with  heat,  and  there  were 
eight  hours  to  follow  before  the  door  would  be  opened 
and  he  could  stumble  into  the  clean  air  and  fall  asleep 


3i2  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

in  the  zareeba.  He  stood  upon  tiptoe  that  he  might 
lift  his  head  above  his  fellows,  but  even  so  he  could 
barely  breathe,  and  the  air  he  breathed  was  moist  and 
sour.  His  throat  was  parched,  his  tongue  was  swollen 
in  his  mouth  and  stringy  like  a  dried  fig.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  imagination  of  God  could  devise  no 
worse  hell  than  the  House  of  Stone  on  an  August 
night  in  Omdurman.  It  could  add  fire,  he  thought, 
but  only  fire. 

"  If  I  were  to  fall !  "  he  cried,  and  as  he  spoke  his 
hell  was  made  perfect,  for  the  door  was  opened. 
Idris  es  Saier  appeared  in  the  opening. 

"  Make  room,"  he  cried,  "  make  room,"  and  he 
threw  fire  among  the  prisoners  to  drive  them  from 
the  door.  Lighted  tufts  of  dried  grass  blazed  in  the 
darkness  and  fell  upon  the  bodies  of  the  prisoners. 
The  captives  were  so  crowded  they  could  not  avoid 
the  missiles ;  in  places,  even,  they  could  not  lift  their 
hands  to  dislodge  them  from  their  shoulders  or  their 
heads. 

"  Make  room,"  cried  Idris.  The  whips  of  his  fel- 
low-gaolers enforced  his  command,  the  lashes  fell 
upon  all  within  reach,  and  a  little  space  was  cleared 
within  the  door.  Into  that  space  a  man  was  flung 
and  the  door  closed  again. 

Trench  was  standing  close  to  the  door ;  in  the  dim 
twilight  which  came  through  the  doorway  he  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  new  prisoner,  a  man  heavily 
ironed,  slight  of  figure,  and  bent  with  suffering. 

"He  will  fall,"  he  said,  "he  will  fall  to-night. 
God  !  if  I  were  to  !  "  and  suddenly  the  crowd  swayed 
against  him,  and  the  curses  rose  louder  and  shriller 
than  before. 


THE   HOUSE    OF   STONE  313 

The  new  prisoner  was  the  cause.  He  clung  to  the 
door  with  his  face  against  the  panels,  through  the 
chinks  of  which  actual  air  might  come.  Those  be- 
hind plucked  him  from  his  vantage,  jostled  him, 
pressed  him  backwards  that  they  might  take  his  place. 
He  was  driven  as  a  wedge  is  driven  by  a  hammer, 
between  this  prisoner  and  that,  until  at  last  he  was 
flung  against  Colonel  Trench. 

The  ordinary  instincts  of  kindness  could  not  live 
in  the  nightmare  of  that  prison  house.  In  the  day- 
time, outside,  the  prisoners  were  often  drawn  together 
by  their  bond  of  a  common  misery ;  the  faithful  as 
often  as  not  helped  the  infidel.  But  to  fight  for  life 
during  the  hours  of  darkness  without  pity  or  cessation 
was  the  one  creed  and  practice  of  the  House  of  Stone. 
Colonel  Trench  was  like  the  rest.  The  need  to  live, 
if  only  long  enough  to  drink  one  drop  of  water  in 
the  morning  and  draw  one  clean  mouthful  of  fresh 
air,  was  more  than  uppermost  in  his  mind.  It  was 
the  only  thought  he  had. 

"  Back !  "  he  cried  violently,  "  back,  or  I  strike  !  "  — 
and,  as  he  wrestled  to  lift  his  arm  above  his  head  that 
he  might  strike  the  better,  he  heard  the  man  who  had 
been  flung  against  him  incoherently  babbling  English. 

"  Don't  fall,"  cried  Trench,  and  he  caught  his  fel- 
low-captive by  the  arm.  "  Ibrahim,  help  !  God,  if  he 
were  to  fall!"  and  while  the  crowd  swayed  again 
and  the  shrill  cries  and  curses  rose  again,  deafening 
the  ears,  piercing  the  brain,  Trench  supported  his 
companion,  and  bending  down  his  head  caught  again 
after  so  many  months  the  accent  of  his  own  tongue. 
And  the  sound  of  it  civilised  him  like  the  friendship 
of  a  woman. 


3i4  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

He  could  not  hear  what  was  said  ;  the  din  was  too 
loud.  But  he  caught,  as  it  were,  shadows  of  words 
which  had  once  been  familiar  to  him,  which  had  been 
spoken  to  him,  which  he  had  spoken  to  others  —  as 
a  matter  of  course.  In  the  House  of  Stone  they 
sounded  most  wonderful.  They  had  a  magic,  too. 
Meadows  of  grass,  cool  skies,  and  limpid  rivers  rose 
in  grey  quiet  pictures  before  his  mind.  For  a  moment 
he  was  insensible  to  his  parched  throat,  to  the  stench 
of  that  prison  house,  to  the  oppressive  blackness. 
But  he  felt  the  man  whom  he  supported  totter  and 
slip,  and  again  he  cried  to  Ibrahim  :  — 

"  If  he  were  to  fall !  " 

Ibrahim  helped  as  only  he  could.  Together  they 
fought  and  wrestled  until  those  about  them  yielded, 
crying  :  — 

"  Shaitan  !     They  are  mad  !  " 

They  cleared  a  space  in  that  corner  and,  setting  the 
Englishman  down  upon  the  ground,  they  stood  in 
front  of  him  lest  he  should  be  trampled.  And  behind 
him  upon  the  ground  Trench  heard  every  now  and 
then  in  a  lull  of  the  noise  the  babble  of  English. 

"  He  will  die  before  morning,"  he  cried  to  Ibrahim, 
"  he  is  in  a  fever  !  " 

"  Sit  beside  him,"  said  the  Hadendoa.  "  I  can 
keep  them  back." 

Trench  stooped  and  squatted  in  the  corner,  Ibrahim 
set  his  legs  well  apart  and  guarded  Trench  and  his 
new  friend. 

Bending  his  head,  Trench  could  now  hear  the 
words.  They  were  the  words  of  a  man  in  delirium, 
spoken  in  a  voice  of  great  pleading.  He  was  telling 
some  tale  of  the  sea,  it  seemed. 


THE   HOUSE    OF   STONE  315 

"  I  saw  the  riding  lights  of  the  yachts  —  and  the 
reflections  shortening  and  lengthening  as  the  water 
rippled  —  there  was  a  band,  too,  as  we  passed  the  pier- 
head. What  was  it  playing  ?  Not  the  overture  —  and 
I  don't  think  that  I  remember  any  other  tune.  .  .  ." 
And  he  laughed  with  a  crazy  chuckle.  "  I  was 
always  pretty  bad  at  appreciating  music,  wasn't  I  ? 
except  when  you  played,"  and  again  he  came  back  to 
the  sea.  "There  was  the  line  of  hills  upon  the  right 
as  the  boat  steamed  out  of  the  bay  —  you  remember 
there  were  woods  on  the  hillside — perhaps  you  have 
forgotten.  Then  came  Bray,  a  little  fairyland  of  lights 
close  down  by  the  water  at  the  point  of  the  ridge  .  .  . 
you  remember  Bray,  we  lunched  there  once  or  twice, 
just  you  and  I,  before  everything  was  settled  ...  it 
seemed  strange  to  be  steaming  out  of  Dublin  Bay 
and  leaving  you  a  long  way  off  to  the  north  among 
the  hills  .  .  .  strange  and  somehow  not  quite  right 
...  for  that  was  the  word  you  used  when  the 
morning  came  behind  the  blinds  —  it  is  not  right 
that  one  should  suffer  so  much  pain  .  .  .  the  engines 
didn't  stop,  though,  they  just  kept  throbbing  and 
revolving  and  clanking  as  though  nothing  had 
happened  whatever  .  .  .  one  felt  a  little  angry  about 
that  .  .  .  the  fairyland  was  already  only  a  sort  of 
golden  blot  behind  .  .  .  and  then  nothing  but  sea 
and  the  salt  wind  .  .  .  and  the  things  to  be  done." 

The  man  in  his  delirium  suddenly  lifted  himself 
upon  an  elbow,  and  with  the  other  hand  fumbled  in 
his  breast  as  though  he  searched  for  something. 
"  Yes,  the  things  to  be  done,"  he  repeated  in  a  mum- 
bling voice,  and  he  sank  to  unintelligible  whisperings, 
with  his  head  fallen  upon  his  breast. 


3i6  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Trench  put  an  arm  about  him  and  raised  him  up. 
But  he  could  do  nothing  more,  and  even  to  him, 
crouched  as  he  was  close  to  the  ground,  the  noisome 
heat  was  almost  beyond  endurance.  In  front,  the  din 
of  shrill  voices,  the  screams  for  pity,  the  swaying  and 
struggling,  went  on  in  that  appalling  darkness.  In 
one  corner  there  were  men  singing  in  a  mad  frenzy, 
in  another  a  few  danced  in  their  fetters,  or  rather 
tried  to  dance ;  in  front  of  Trench  Ibrahim  main- 
tained his  guard  ;  and  beside  Trench  there  lay  in  the 
House  of  Stone,  in  the  town  beyond  the  world,  a  man 
who  one  night  had  sailed  out  of  Dublin  Bay,  past  the 
riding  lanterns  of  the  yachts,  and  had  seen  Bray,  that 
fairyland  of  lights,  dwindle  to  a  golden  blot.  To  think 
of  the  sea  and  the  salt  wind,  the  sparkle  of  light  as 
the  water  split  at  the  ship's  bows,  the  illuminated 
deck,  perhaps  the  sound  of  a  bell  telling  the  hour, 
and  the  cool  dim  night  about  and  above,  so  wrought 
upon  Trench  that,  practical  unimaginative  creature 
as  he  was,  for  very  yearning  he  could  have  wept. 
But  the  stranger  at  his  side  began  to  speak  again. 

"  It  is  funny  that  those  three  faces  were  always  the 
same  .  .  .  the  man  in  the  tent  with  the  lancet  in  his 
hand,  and  the  man  in  the  back  room  off  Piccadilly  .  .  . 
and  mine.  Funny  and  not  quite  right.  No,  I  don't 
think  that  was  quite  right  either.  They  get  quite 
big,  too,  just  when  you  are  going  to  sleep  in  the  dark  — 
quite  big,  and  they  come  very  close  to  you  and  won't 
go  away  .  .  .  they  rather  frighten  one.  .  .  ."  And 
he  suddenly  clung  to  Trench  with  a  close,  nervous 
grip,  like  a  boy  in  an  extremity  of  fear.  And  it  was 
in  the  tone  of  reassurance  that  a  man  might  use  to 
a  boy  that  Trench  replied,  "  It's  all  right,  old  man,  it's 
all  right." 


THE    HOUSE    OF   STONE  317 

But  Trench's  companion  was  already  relieved  of 
his  fear.  He  had  come  out  of  his  boyhood,  and 
was  rehearsing  some  interview  which  was  to  take 
place  in  the  future. 

"  Will  you  take  it  back  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  great 
deal  of  hesitation  and  timidity.  "  Really  ?  The  others 
have,  all  except  the  man  who  died  at  Tamai.  And 
you  will  too  !  "  He  spoke  as  though  he  could  hardly 
believe  some  piece  of  great  good  fortune  which  had 
befallen  him.  Then  his  voice  changed  to  that  of  a 
man  belittling  his  misfortunes.  "  Oh,  it  hasn't  been 
the  best  of  times,  of  course.  But  then  one  didn't  ex- 
pect the  best  of  times.  And  at  the  worst,  one  had 
always  the  afterwards  to  look  forward  to  .  .  .  supposing 
one  didn't  run.  ...  I'm  not  sure  that  when  the  whole 
thing's  balanced,  it  won't  come  out  that  you  have  really 
had  the  worst  time.  I  know  you  ...  it  would  hurt  you 
through  and  through,  pride  and  heart  and  everything, 
and  for  a  long  time  just  as  much  as  it  hurt  that  morn- 
ing when  the  daylight  came  through  the  blinds.  And 
you  couldn't  do  anything  !  And  you  hadn't  the  after- 
wards to  help  you  —  you  weren't  looking  forward  to 
it  all  the  time  as  I  was  ...  it  was  all  over  and  done 
with  for  you  ..."  and  he  lapsed  again  into  mutterings. 

Colonel  Trench's  delight  in  the  sound  of  his  native 
tongue  had  now  given  place  to  a  great  curiosity  as  to 
the  man  who  spoke  and  what  he  said.  Trench  had 
described  himself  a  long  while  ago  as  he  stood  oppo- 
site the  cab-stand  in  the  southwest  corner  of  St. 
James's  Square  :  "  I  am  an  inquisitive,  methodical 
person,"  he  had  said,  and  he  had  not  described  him- 
self amiss.  Here  was  a  life  history,  it  seemed,  being 
unfolded  to  his  ears,  and  not  the  happiest  of  histories. 


318  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

perhaps,  indeed,  with  something  of  tragedy  at  the 
heart  of  it.  Trench  began  to  speculate  upon  the 
meaning  of  that  word  "  afterwards,"  which  came  and 
went  among  the  words  like  the  motif  in  a  piece  of 
music  and  very  likely  was  the  life  motif  of  the  man 
who  spoke  them. 

In  the  prison  the  heat  became  stifling,  the  darkness 
more  oppressive,  but  the  cries  and  shouts  were  dying 
down ;  their  volume  was  less  great,  their  intonation 
less  shrill ;  stupor  and  fatigue  and  exhaustion  were 
having  their  effect.  Trench  bent  his  head  again  to 
his  companion  and  now  heard  more  clearly. 

"  I  saw  your  light  that  morning  .  .  .  you  put  it  out 
suddenly  ...  did  you  hear  my  step  on  the  gravel  ?  .  .  . 
I  thought  you  did,  it  hurt  rather,"  and  then  he  broke 
out  into  an  emphatic  protest.  "  No,  no,  I  had  no 
idea  that  you  would  wait.  I  had  no  wish  that  you 
should.  Afterwards,  perhaps,  I  thought,  but  nothing 
more,  upon  my  word.  Sutch  was  quite  wrong.  ...  Of 
course  there  was  always  the  chance  that  one  might 
come  to  grief  oneself  —  get  killed,  you  know,  or  fall 
ill  and  die  —  before  one  asked  you  to  take  your 
feather  back;  and  then  there  wouldn't  even  have 
been  a  chance  of  the  afterwards.  But  that  is  the  risk 
one  had  to  take." 

The  allusion  was  not  direct  enough  for  Colonel 
Trench's  comprehension.  He  heard  the  word 
"feather,"  but  he  could  not  connect  it  as  yet  with 
any  action  of  his  own.  He  was  more  curious  than 
ever  about  that  "afterwards";  he  began  to  have  a 
glimmering  of  its  meaning,  and  he  was  struck  with 
wonderment  at  the  thought  of  how  many  men  there 
were  going  about  the  world  with  a  calm  and  common- 


THE   HOUSE    OF   STONE  319 

place  demeanour  beneath  which  were  hidden  quaint 
fancies  and  poetic  beliefs,  never  to  be  so  much  as  sus- 
pected, until  illness  deprived  the  brain  of  its  control. 

"No,  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  never  said  anything 
that  night  to  you  about  what  I  intended  was,  I  think, 
that  I  did  not  wish  you  to  wait  or  have  any  suspicion 
of  what  I  was  going  to  attempt."  And  then  expos- 
tulation ceased,  and  he  began  to  speak  in  a  tone  of 
interest.  "  Do  you  know,  it  has  only  occurred  to  me 
since  I  came  to  the  Soudan,  but  I  believe  that  Dur- 
rance  cared." 

The  name  came  with  something  of  a  shock  upon 
Trench's  ears.  This  man  knew  Durrance !  He 
was  not  merely  a  stranger  of  Trench's  blood,  but  he 
knew  Durrance  even  as  Trench  knew  him.  There 
was  a  link  between  them,  they  had  a  friend  in  com- 
mon. He  knew  Durrance,  had  fought  in  the  same 
square  with  him,  perhaps,  at  Tokar,  or  Tamai,  or  Ta- 
manib,  just  as  Trench  had  done !  And  so  Trench's 
curiosity  as  to  the  life  history  in  its  turn  gave  place  to 
a  curiosity  as  to  the  identity  of  the  man.  He  tried 
to  see,  knowing  that  in  that  black  and  noisome  hovel 
sight  was  impossible.  He  might  hear,  though,  enough 
to  be  assured.  For  if  the  stranger  knew  Durrance,  it 
might  be  that  he  knew  Trench  as  well.  Trench  lis- 
tened; the  sound  of  the  voice,  high  pitched  and 
rambling,  told  him  nothing.  He  waited  for  the  words, 
and  the  words  came. 

"Durrance  stood  at  the  window,  after  I  had  told 
them  about  you,  Ethne,"  and  Trench  repeated  the 
name  to  himself.  It  was  to  a  woman,  then,  that  his 
new-found  compatriot,  this  friend  of  Durrance,  in  his 
delirium  imagined  himself  to  be  speaking  —  a  woman 


3zo  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

named  Ethne.  Trench  could  recall  no  such  name; 
but  the  voice  in  the  dark  went  on. 

"  All  the  time  when  I  was  proposing  to  send  in  my 
papers,  after  the  telegram  had  come,  he  stood  at  the 
window  of  my  rooms  with  his  back  to  me,  looking  out 
across  the  park.  I  fancied  he  blamed  me.  But  I 
think  now  he  was  making  up  his  mind  to  lose  you. 
...  I  wonder." 

Trench  uttered  so  startled  an  exclamation  that 
Ibrahim  turned  round. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  No,  he  lives,  he  lives." 

It  was  impossible,  Trench  argued.  He  remembered 
quite  clearly  Durrance  standing  by  a  window  with 
his  back  to  the  room.  He  remembered  a  telegram 
coming  which  took  a  long  while  in  the  reading  — 
which  diffused  among  all  except  Durrance  an  inex- 
plicable suspense.  He  remembered,  too,  a  man  who 
spoke  of  his  betrothal  and  of  sending  in  his  papers. 
But  surely  this  could  not  be  the  man.  Was  the 
woman's  name  Ethne  ?  A  woman  of  Donegal  —  yes ; 
and  this  man  had  spoken  of  sailing  out  of  Dublin 
Bay  —  he  had  spoken,  too,  of  a  feather. 

"  Good  God  !  "  whispered  Trench.  "  Was  the  name 
Ethne  ?     Was  it  ?     Was  it  ?  " 

But  for  a  while  he  received  no  answer.  He  heard 
only  talk  of  a  mud-walled  city,  and  an  intolerable 
sun  burning  upon  a  wide  round  of  desert,  and  a  man 
who  lay  there  all  the  day  with  his  linen  robe  drawn 
over  his  head,  and  slowly  drew  one  face  towards  him 
across  three  thousand  miles,  until  at  sunset  it  was 
near,  and  he  took  courage  and  went  down  into  the 
gate.     And  after  that,  four  words  stabbed  Trench. 


THE   HOUSE    OF   STONE  321 

"Three  little  white  feathers,"  were  the  words. 
Trench  leaned  back  against  the  wall.  It  was  he  who 
had  devised  that  message.  "  Three  little  white 
feathers,"  the  voice  repeated.  "  This  afternoon  we 
were  under  the  elms  down  by  the  Lennon  River  — 
do  you  remember,  Harry?  —  just  you  and  I.  And 
then  came  three  little  white  feathers  ;  and  the  world's 
at  an  end." 

Trench  had  no  longer  any  doubts.  The  man  was 
quoting  words,  and  words,  no  doubt,  spoken  by  this 
girl  Ethne  on  the  night  when  the  three  feathers  came. 
"  Harry,"  she  had  said.  "  Do  you  remember, 
Harry  ?  "     Trench  was  certain. 

"  Feversham  !  "  he  cried.  "  Feversham  !  "  And 
he  shook  the  man  whom  he  held  in  his  arms  and 
called  to  him  again.  "  Under  the  elms  by  the  Len- 
non River  —  "  Visions  of  green  shade  touched  with 
gold,  and  of  the  sunlight  flickering  between  the 
leaves,  caught  at  Trench  and  drew  him  like  a  mirage 
in  that  desert  of  which  Feversham  had  spoken. 
Feversham  had  been  under  the  elms  of  the  Lennon 
River  on  that  afternoon  before  the  feathers  came,  and 
he  was  in  the  House  of  Stone  at  Omdurman.  But 
why  ?  Trench  asked  himself  the  question  and  was 
not  spared  the  answer. 

"  Willoughby  took  his  feather  back  "  —  and  upon 
that  Feversham  broke  off.  His  voice  rambled.  He 
seemed  to  be  running  somewhere  amid  sandhills 
which  continually  shifted  and  danced  about  him  as 
he  ran,  so  that  he  could  not  tell  which  way  he  went. 
He  was  in  the  last  stage  of  fatigue,  too,  so  that  his 
voice  in  his  delirium  became  querulous  and  weak. 
"  Abou  Fatma !  "  he  cried,  and  the  cry  was  the  cry  of 

Y 


3 22  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

a  man  whose  throat  is  parched,  and  whose  limbs  fail 
beneath  him.  "  Abou  Fatma  !  AbouFatma!"  He 
stumbled  as  he  ran,  picked  himself  up,  ran  and 
stumbled  again ;  and  about  him  the  deep  soft  sand 
piled  itself  into  pyramids,  built  itself  into  long  slopes 
and  ridges,  and  levelled  itself  flat  with  an  extra- 
ordinary and  a  malicious  rapidity.  "  Abou  Fatma  !  " 
cried  Feversham,  and  he  began  to  argue  in  a  weak 
obstinate  voice.  "  I  know  the  wells  are  here  —  close 
by  —  within  half  a  mile.  I  know  they  are  —  I  know 
they  are." 

The  clue  to  that  speech  Trench  had  not  got.  He 
knew  nothing  of  Feversham's  adventure  at  Berber; 
he  could  not  tell  that  the  wells  were  the  Wells  of 
Obak,  or  that  Feversham,  tired  with  the  hurry  of  his 
travelling,  and  after  a  long  day's  march  without 
water,  had  lost  his  way  among  the  shifting  sand- 
hills. But  he  did  know  that  Willoughby  had  taken 
back  his  feather,  and  he  made  a  guess  as  to  the 
motive  which  had  brought  Feversham  now  to  the 
House  of  Stone.  Even  on  that  point,  however,  he 
was  not  to  remain  in  doubt ;  for  in  a  while  he  heard 
his  own  name  upon  Feversham's  lips. 

Remorse  seized  upon  Colonel  Trench.  The  send- 
ing of  the  feathers  had  been  his  invention  and  his 
alone.  He  could  not  thrust  the  responsibility  of  his 
invention  upon  either  Willoughby  or  Castleton  ;  it  was 
just  his  doing.  He  had  thought  it  rather  a  shrewd 
and  clever  stroke,  he  remembered  at  the  time  —  a  ven- 
geance eminently  just.  Eminently  just,  no  doubt,  it 
was,  but  he  had  not  thought  of  the  woman.  He  had 
not  imagined  that  she  might  be  present  when  the 
feathers  came.     He  had  indeed  almost  forgotten  the 


THE   HOUSE    OF  STONE  323 

episode,  he  had  never  speculated  upon  the  conse- 
quences, and  now  they  rose  up  and  smote  the  smiter. 

And  his  remorse  was  to  grow.  For  the  night  was 
not  nearly  at  its  end.  All  through  the  dark  slow 
hours  he  supported  Feversham  and  heard  him  talk. 
Now  Feversham  was  lurking  in  the  bazaar  at  Suakin 
and  during  the  siege. 

"  During  the  siege,"  thought  Trench.  "  While  we 
were  there,  then,  he  was  herding  with  the  camel- 
drivers  in  the  bazaar  learning  their  tongues,  watching 
for  his  chance.     Three  years  of  it !  " 

At  another  moment  Feversham  was  slinking  up  the 
Nile  to  Wadi  Haifa  with  a  zither,  in  the  company  of 
some  itinerant  musicians,  hiding  from  any  who  might 
remember  him  and  accuse  him  with  his  name. 
Trench  heard  of  a  man  slipping  out  from  Wadi 
Haifa,  crossing  the  Nile  and  wandering  with  the 
assumed  manner  of  a  lunatic  southwards,  starving 
and  waterless,  until  one  day  he  was  snapped  up  by  a 
Mahdist  caravan  and  dragged  to  Dongola  as  a  spy. 
And  at  Dongola  things  had  happened  of  which  the 
mere  mention  made  Trench  shake.  He  heard  of 
leather  cords  which  had  been  bound  about  the  pris- 
oner's wrists,  and  upon  which  water  had  been  poured 
until  the  cords  swelled  and  the  wrists  burst,  but  this 
was  among  the  minor  brutalities.  Trench  waited 
for  the  morning  as  he  listened,  wondering  whether 
indeed  it  would  ever  come. 

He  heard  the  bolts  dragged  back  at  the  last;  he 
saw  the  door  open  and  the  good  daylight.  He  stood 
up  and  with  Ibrahim's  help  protected  this  new 
comrade  until  the  eager  rush  was  past.  Then  he 
supported  him  out  into  the  zareeba.    Worn,  wasted  in 


324  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

body  and  face,  with  a  rough  beard  straggled  upon 
his  chin,  and  his  eyes  all  sunk  and  very  bright,  it  was 
still  Harry  Feversham.  Trench  laid  him  down  in  a 
corner  of  the  zareeba  where  there  would  be  shade  ; 
and  in  a  few  hours  shade  would  be  needed.  Then 
with  the  rest  he  scrambled  to  the  Nile  for  water  and 
brought  it  back.  As  he  poured  it  down  Feversham's 
throat,  Feversham  seemed  for  a  moment  to  recognise 
him.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment,  and  the  incohe- 
rent tale  of  his  adventures  began  again.  Thus,  after 
five  years,  and  for  the  first  time  since  Trench  had 
dined  as  Feversham's  guest  in  the  high  rooms  over- 
looking St.  James's  Park,  the  two  men  met  in  the 
House  of  Stone. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

PLANS    OF    ESCAPE 

For  three  days  Feversham  rambled  and  wandered 
in  his  talk,  and  for  three  days  Trench  fetched  him 
water  from  the  Nile,  shared  his  food  with   him,  and 
ministered  to  his  wants  ;  for  three  nights,  too,  he  stood 
with  Ibrahim  and  fought  in  front  of  Feversham  in 
the    House  of  Stone.      But  on  the  fourth   morning 
Feversham  waked  to  his  senses  and,  looking  up,  with 
his    own   eyes    saw  bending   over  him   the   face   of 
Trench.     At  first  the  face  seemed  part  of  his  delirium. 
It  was  one  of  those  nightmare  faces  which  had  used 
to  grow  big  and  had  come  so  horribly  close  to  him 
in  the  dark  nights  of  his  boyhood  as  he  lay  in  bed. 
He  put  out  a  weak  arm  and  thrust  it  aside.     But 
he  gazed  about  him.     He  was  lying  in  the  shadow 
of  the  prison  house,  and  the  hard  blue  sky  above  him, 
the  brown  bare  trampled  soil  on  which  he  lay,  and 
the    figures    of    his    fellow-prisoners    dragging    their 
chains  or  lying  prone  upon  the  ground  in  some  ex- 
tremity of  sickness  gradually  conveyed  their  meaning 
to  him.     He  turned  to  Trench,  caught  at  him  as  if 
he  feared  the  next  moment  would  snatch  him  out  of 
reach,  and  then  he  smiled. 

"I  am  in  the  prison  at  Omdurman,"  he  said, 
"actually  in  the  prison!  This  is  Umm  Hagar,  the 
House  of  Stone.     It  seems  too  good  to  be  true." 


3 26  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

He  leaned  back  against  the  wall  with  an  air  of 
extreme  relief.  To  Trench  the  words,  the  tone  of 
satisfaction  in  which  they  were  uttered,  sounded  like 
some  sardonic  piece  of  irony.  A  man  who  plumed 
himself  upon  indifference  to  pain  and  pleasure  —  who 
posed  as  a  being  of  so  much  experience  that  joy  and 
trouble  could  no  longer  stir  a  pulse  or  cause  a  frown, 
and  who  carried  his  pose  to  perfection  —  such  a  man, 
thought  Trench,  might  have  uttered  Feversham's 
words  in  Feversham's  voice.  But  Feversham  was 
not  that  man ;  his  delirium  had  proved  it.  The  satis- 
faction, then,  was  genuine,  the  words  sincere.  The 
peril  of  Dongola  was  past,  he  had  found  Trench,  he 
was  in  Omdurman.  That  prison  house  was  his  longed- 
for  goal,  and  he  had  reached  it.  He  might  have  been 
dangling  on  a  gibbet  hundreds  of  miles  away  down 
the  stream  of  the  Nile  with  the  vultures  perched  upon 
his  shoulders,  the  purpose  for  which  he  lived  quite 
unfulfilled.  But  he  was  in  the  enclosure  of  the  House 
of  Stone  in  Omdurman. 

"  You  have  been  here  a  long  while,"  he  said. 

"  Three  years." 

Feversham  looked  round  the  zareeba.  "  Three 
years  of  it,"  he  murmured.  "  I  was  afraid  that  I 
might  not  find  you  alive." 

Trench  nodded. 

"  The  nights  are  the  worst,  the  nights  in  there. 
It's  a  wonder  any  man  lives  through  a  week  of  them, 
yet  I  have  lived  through  a  thousand  nights."  And 
even  to  him  who  had  endured  them  his  endurance 
seemed  incredible.  "  A  thousand  nights  of  the 
House  of  Stone!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  But  we  may  go  down  to  the  Nile  by  daytime," 


PLANS    OF   ESCAPE  327 

said  Feversham,  and  he  started  up  with  alarm  as  he 
gazed  at  the  thorn  zareeba.  "  Surely  we  are  allowed 
so  much  liberty.  I  was  told  so.  An  Arab  at  Wadi 
Haifa  told  me." 

"  And  it's  true,"  returned  Trench.  "  Look !  "  He 
pointed  to  the  earthen  bowl  of  water  at  his  side.  "  I 
filled  that  at  the  Nile  this  morning." 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Feversham,  and  he  lifted  him- 
self up  from  the  ground.  "  I  must  go  this  morning," 
and  since  he  spoke  with  a  raised  voice  and  a  manner 
of  excitement,  Trench  whispered  to  him  :  — 

"  Hush.  There  are  many  prisoners  here,  and 
among  them  many  tale-bearers." 

Feversham  sank  back  on  to  the  ground  as  much 
from  weakness  as  in  obedience  to  Trench's  warning. 

"  But  they  cannot  understand  what  we  say,"  he 
objected  in  a  voice  from  which  the  excitement  had 
suddenly  gone. 

"  They  can  see  that  we  talk  together  and  earnestly. 
Idris  would  know  of  it  within  the  hour,  the  Khalifa 
before  sunset.  There  would  be  heavier  fetters  and 
the  courbatch  if  we  spoke  at  all.  Lie  still.  You  are 
weak,  and  I  too  am  very  tired.  We  will  sleep,  and 
later  in  the  day  we  will  go  together  down  to  the  Nile." 

Trench  lay  down  beside  Feversham  and  in  a 
moment  was  asleep.  Feversham  watched  him,  and 
saw,  now  that  his  features  were  relaxed,  the  marks  of 
those  three  years  very  plainly  in  his  face.  It  was 
towards  noon  before  he  awoke. 

"  There  is  no  one  to  bring  you  food  ?  "  he  asked, 
and  Feversham  answered  :  — 

"Yes.  A  boy  should  come.  He  should  bring 
news  as  well." 


328  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

They  waited  until  the  gate  of  the  zareeba  was 
opened  and  the  friends  or  wives  of  the  prisoners 
entered.  At  once  that  enclosure  became  a  cage  of 
wild  beasts.  The  gaolers  took  their  dole  at  the  out- 
set. Little  more  of  the  "aseeda" — that  moist  and 
pounded  cake  of  dhurra  which  was  the  staple  diet  of 
the  town  —  than  was  sufficient  to  support  life  was 
allowed  to  reach  the  prisoners,  and  even  for  that  the 
strong  fought  with  the  weak,  and  the  group  of  four 
did  battle  with  the  group  of  three.  From  every 
corner  men  gaunt  and  thin  as  skeletons  hopped  and 
leaped  as  quickly  as  the  weight  of  their  chains  would 
allow  them  towards  the  entrance.  Here  one  weak 
with  starvation  tripped  and  fell,  and  once  fallen  lay 
prone  in  a  stolid  despair,  knowing  that  for  him  there 
would  be  no  meal  that  day.  Others  seized  upon  the 
messengers  who  brought  the  food,  and  tore  it  from 
their  hands,  though  the  whips  of  the  gaolers  laid  their 
backs  open.  There  were  thirty  gaolers  to  guard  that 
enclosure,  each  armed  with  his  rhinoceros-hide  cour- 
batch,  but  this  was  the  one  moment  in  each  day  when 
the  courbatch  was  neither  feared,  nor,  as  it  seemed,  felt. 

Among  the  food-bearers  a  boy  sheltered  himself 
behind  the  rest  and  gazed  irresolutely  about  the 
zareeba.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  was 
detected.  He  was  knocked  down,  and  his  food 
snatched  from  his  hands ;  but  the  boy  had  his  lungs, 
and  his  screams  brought  Idris-es-Saier  himself  upon 
the  three  men  who  had  attacked  him. 

"  For  whom  do  you  come  ? "  asked  Idris,  as  he 
thrust  the  prisoners  aside. 

"  For  Joseppi,  the  Greek,"  answered  the  boy,  and 
Idris  pointed  to   the  corner  where   Feversham  lay. 


PLANS    OF   ESCAPE  329 

The  boy  advanced,  holding  out  his  empty  hands  as 
though  explaining  how  it  was  that  he  brought  no 
food.  But  he  came  quite  close,  and  squatting  at 
Feversham's  side  continued  to  explain  with  words. 
And  as  he  spoke  he  loosed  a  gazelle  skin  which  was 
fastened  about  his  waist  beneath  his  jibbeh,  and  he 
let  it  fall  by  Feversham's  side.  The  gazelle  skin 
contained  a  chicken,  and  upon  that  Feversham  and 
Trench  breakfasted  and  dined  and  supped.  An  hour 
later  they  were  allowed  to  pass  out  of  the  zareeba 
and  make  their  way  to  the  Nile.  They  walked  slowly 
and  with  many  halts,  and  during  one  of  these  Trench 
said :  — 

"  We  can  talk  here." 

Below  them,  at  the  water's  edge,  some  of  the  pris- 
oners were  unloading  dhows,  others  were  paddling 
knee-deep  in  the  muddy  water.  The  shore  was 
crowded  with  men  screaming  and  shouting  and  ex- 
cited for  no  reason  whatever.  The  gaolers  were 
within  view,  but  not  within  earshot. 

"  Yes,  we  can  talk  here.     Why  have  you  come  ? " 

"I  was  captured  in  the  desert,  on  the  Arbain 
road,"  said  Feversham,  slowly. 

"  Yes,  masquerading  as  a  lunatic  musician  who  had 
wandered  out  of  Wadi  Haifa  with  a  zither.  I  know. 
But  you  were  captured  by  your  own  deliberate  wish. 
You  came  to  join  me  in  Omdurman.     I  know." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"You  told  me.  During  the  last  three  days  you 
have  told  me  much,"  and  Feversham  looked  about 
him  suddenly  in  alarm.  "Very  much,"  continued 
Trench.  "  You  came  to  join  me  because  five  years 
ago  I  sent  you  a  white  feather." 


33Q  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  And  was  that  all  I  told  you  ?  "  asked  Feversham, 
anxiously. 

"  No,"  Trench  replied,  and  he  dragged  out  the 
word.  He  sat  up  while  Feversham  lay  on  his  side, 
and  he  looked  towards  the  Nile  in  front  of  him,  hold- 
ing his  head  between  his  hands,  so  that  he  could  not 
see  or  be  seen  by  Feversham.  "  No,  that  was  not 
all  —  you  spoke  of  a  girl,  the  same  girl  of  whom  you 
spoke  when  Willoughby  and  Durrance  and  I  dined 
with  you  in  London  a  long  while  ago.  I  know  her 
name  now  —  her  Christian  name.  She  was  with  you 
when  the  feathers  came.  I  had  not  thought  of  that 
possibility.  She  gave  you  a  fourth  feather  to  add  to 
our  three.     I  am  sorry." 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  length,  and  then 
Feversham  replied  slowly  :  — 

"  For  my  part  I  am  not  sorry.  I  mean  I  am  not 
sorry  that  she  was  present  when  the  feathers  came. 
I  think,  on  the  whole,  that  I  am  rather  glad.  She 
gave  me  the  fourth  feather,  it  is  true,  but  I  am  glad 
of  that  as  well.  For  without  her  presence,  without 
that  fourth  feather  snapped  from  her  fan,  I  might 
have  given  up  there  and  then.  Who  knows  ?  I 
doubt  if  I  could  have  stood  up  to  the  three  long 
years  in  Suakin.  I  used  to  see  you  and  Durrance 
and  Willoughby  and  many  men  who  had  once  been 
my  friends,  and  you  were  all  going  about  the  work 
which  I  was  used  to.  You  can't  think  how  the  mere 
routine  of  a  regiment  to  which  one  had  become 
accustomed,  and  which  one  cursed  heartily  enough 
when  one  had  to  put  up  with  it,  appealed  as  some- 
thing very  desirable.  I  could  so  easily  have  run 
away.     I  could  so  easily  have  slipped  on  to  a  boat 


PLANS    OF   ESCAPE  331 

and  gone  back  to  Suez.     And  the  chance  for  which 
I  waited  never  came  —  for  three  years." 

"  You  saw  us  ? "  said  Trench.  "  And  you  gave  no 
sign  ? " 

"  How  would  you  have  taken  it  if  I  had  ?  "  And 
Trench  was  silent.  "  No,  I  saw  you,  but  I  was 
careful  that  you  should  not  see  me.  I  doubt  if  I 
could  have  endured  it  without  the  recollection  of  that 
night  at  Ramelton,  without  the  feel  of  the  fourth 
feather  to  keep  the  recollection  actual  and  recent  in 
my  thoughts.  I  should  never  have  gone  down  from 
Obak  into  Berber.  I  should  certainly  never  have 
joined  you  in  Omdurman." 

Trench  turned  quickly  towards  his  companion. 

"  She  would  be  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  sorry  about  her  fourth 
feather,  sorry  as  I  am  about  the  other  three." 

"  There  is  no  reason  that  she  should  be,  or  that  you 
either  should  be  sorry.  I  don't  blame  you,  or  her," 
and  in  his  turn  Feversham  was  silent  and  looked 
towards  the  river.  The  air  was  shrill  with  cries,  the 
shore  was  thronged  with  a  motley  of  Arabs  and 
negroes,  dressed  in  their  long  robes  of  blue  and 
yellow  and  dirty  brown  ;  the  work  of  unloading  the 
dhows  went  busily  on ;  across  the  river  and  beyond 
its  fork  the  palm  trees  of  Khartum  stood  up  against 
the  cloudless  sky;  and  the  sun  behind  them  was 
moving  down  to  the  west.  In  a  few  hours  would 
come  the  horrors  of  the  House  of  Stone.  But  they 
were  both  thinking  of  the  elms  by  the  Lennon  River 
and  a  hall  of  which  the  door  stood  open  to  the  cool 
night  and  which  echoed  softly  to  the  music  of  a  waltz, 
while  a  girl  and  a  man  stood  with  three  white  feathers 


332  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

fallen  upon  the  floor  between  them ;  the  one  man 
recollected,  the  other  imagined,  the  picture,  and  to 
both  of  them  it  was  equally  vivid.  Feversham  smiled 
at  last. 

"  Perhaps  she  has  now  seen  Willoughby ;  perhaps 
she  has  now  taken  his  feather." 

Trench  held  out  his  hand  to  his  companion. 

"  I  will  take  mine  back  now." 

Feversham  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  not  yet,"  and  Trench's  face  suddenly  lighted 
up.  A  hope  which  had  struggled  up  in  his  hopeless 
breast  during  the  three  days  and  nights  of  his  watch, 
a  hope  which  he  had  striven  to  repress  for  very  fear 
lest  it  might  prove  false,  sprang  to  life. 

"  Not  yet,  —  then  you  have  a  plan  for  our  escape," 
and  the  anxiety  returned  to  Feversham's  face. 

"  I  said  nothing  of  it,"  he  pleaded,  "  tell  me  that ! 
When  I  was  delirious  in  the  prison  there,  I  said 
nothing  of  it,  I  breathed  no  word  of  it  ?  I  told  you 
of  the  four  feathers,  I  told  you  of  Ethne,  but  of  the 
plan  for  your  escape  I  said  nothing." 

"  Not  a  single  word.  So  that  I  myself  was  in  doubt, 
and  did  not  dare  to  believe,"  and  Feversham's  anxiety 
died  away.  He  had  spoken  with  his  hand  trembling 
upon  Trench's  arm,  and  his  voice  itself  had  trembled 
with  alarm. 

"You  see  if  I  spoke  of  that  in  the  House  of  Stone," 
he  exclaimed,  "  I  might  have  spoken  of  it  in  Dongola. 
For  in  Dongola  as  well  as  in  Omdurman  I  was  deliri- 
ous. But  I  didn't,  you  say  —  not  here,  at  all  events. 
So  perhaps  not  there  either.  I  was  afraid  that  I 
should  —  how  I  was  afraid  !  There  was  a  woman  in 
Dongola  who  spoke  some  English — very  little,  but 


PLANS    OF   ESCAPE  333 

enough.  She  had  been  in  the  '  Kauneesa '  of  Khartum 
when  Gordon  ruled  there.  She  was  sent  to  question 
me.     I  had  unhappy  times  in  Dongola." 

Trench  interrupted  him  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  know. 
You  told  me  things  which  made  me  shiver,"  and  he 
caught  hold  of  Feversham's  arm  and  thrust  the  loose 
sleeve  back.  Feversham's  scarred  wrists  confirmed 
the  tale. 

"Well,  I  felt  myself  getting  light-headed  there,"  he 
went  on.  "  I  made  up  my  mind  that  of  your  escape 
I  must  let  no  hint  slip.  So  I  tried  to  think  of  some- 
thing else  with  all  my  might,  when  I  was  going  off 
my  head."     And  he  laughed  a  little  to  himself. 

"  That  was  why  you  heard  me  talk  of  Ethne,"  he 
explained. 

Trench  sat  nursing  his  knees  and  looking  straight 
in  front  of  him.  He  had  paid  no  heed  to  Feversham's 
last  words.  He  had  dared  now  to  give  his  hopes  their 
way. 

"  So  it's  true,"  he  said  in  a  quiet  wondering  voice. 
"  There  will  be  a  morning  when  we  shall  not  drag 
ourselves  out  of  the  House  of  Stone.  There  will  be 
nights  when  we  shall  sleep  in  beds,  actually  in  beds. 
There  will  be  —  "  He  stopped  with  a  sort  of  shy  air 
like  a  man  upon  the  brink  of  a  confession.  "  There 
will  be  —  something  more,"  he  said  lamely,  and  then 
he  got  up  on  to  his  feet. 

"We  have  sat  here  too  long.      Let  us  go  forward." 

They  moved  a  hundred  yards  nearer  to  the  river 
and  sat  down  again. 

"  You  have  more  than  a  hope.  You  have  a  plan  of 
escape  ?  "    Trench  asked  eagerly. 

11  More  than  a  plan,"  returned  Feversham.     "  The 


334  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

preparations  are  made.  There  are  camels  waiting  in 
the  desert  ten  miles  west  of  Omdurman." 

"  Now  ?  "  exclaimed  Trench.     "  Now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  man,  now.  There  are  rifles  and  ammunition 
buried  near  the  camels,  provisions  and  water  kept  in 
readiness.  We  travel  by  Metemneh,  where  fresh 
camels  wait,  from  Metemneh  to  Berber.  There  we 
cross  the  Nile  ;  camels  are  waiting  for  us  five  miles 
from  Berber.  From  Berber  we  ride  in  over  the  Kokreb 
pass  to  Suakin." 

"When?"  exclaimed  Trench.   "Oh,  when,  when  ?  " 

"  When  I  have  strength  enough  to  sit  a  horse  for 
ten  miles,  and  a  camel  for  a  week,"  answered  Fever- 
sham.  "  How  soon  will  that  be  ?  Not  long,  Trench, 
I  promise  you  not  long,"  and  he  rose  up  from  the 
ground. 

"  As  you  get  up,"  he  continued,  "  glance  round. 
You  will  see  a  man  in  a  blue  linen  dress,  loitering 
between  us  and  the  gaol.  As  we  came  past  him,  he 
made  me  a  sign.  I  did  not  return  it.  I  shall  return 
it  on  the  day  when  we  escape." 

"He  will  wait ? " 

"  For  a  month.  We  must  manage  on  one  night 
during  that  month  to  escape  from  the  House  of  Stone. 
We  can  signal  him  to  bring  help.  A  passage  might 
be  made  in  one  night  through  that  wall ;  the  stones 
are  loosely  built." 

They  walked  a  little  farther  and  came  to  the 
water's  edge.  There  amid  the  crowd  they  spoke 
again  of  their  escape,  but  with  the  air  of  men  amused 
at  what  went  on  about  them. 

"  There  is  a  better  way  than  breaking  through  the 
wall,"  said  Trench,  and  he  uttered  a  laugh  as  he  spoke 


PLANS    OF   ESCAPE  335 

and  pointed  to  a  prisoner  with  a  great  load  upon  his 
back  who  had  fallen  upon  his  face  in  the  water,  and 
encumbered  by  his  fetters,  pressed  down  by  his  load, 
was  vainly  struggling  to  lift  himself  again.  "  There 
is  a  better  way.     You  have  money  ?  " 

"  Ai,  ai !  "  shouted  Feversham,  roaring  with  laugh- 
ter, as  the  prisoner  half  rose  and  soused  again.  "  I 
have  some  concealed  on  me.  Idris  took  what  I  did 
not  conceal." 

"Good!"  said  Trench.  "Idris  will  come  to  you 
to-day  or  to-morrow.  He  will  talk  to  you  of  the  good- 
ness of  Allah  who  has  brought  you  out  of  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  world  to  the  holy  city  of  Omdurman.  He 
will  tell  you  at  great  length  of  the  peril  of  your  soul 
and  of  the  only  means  of  averting  it,  and  he  will  wind 
up  with  a  few  significant  sentences  about  his  starving 
family.  If  you  come  to  the  aid  of  his  starving  family 
and  bid  him  keep  for  himself  fifteen  dollars  out  of 
the  amount  he  took  from  you,  you  may  get  permis- 
sion to  sleep  in  the  zareeba  outside  the  prison.  Be 
content  with  that  for  a  night  or  two.  Then  he  will 
come  to  you  again,  and  again  you  will  assist  his 
starving  family,  and  this  time  you  will  ask  for  per- 
mission for  me  to  sleep  in  the  open  too.  Come! 
There's  Idris  shepherding  us  home." 

It  fell  out  as  Trench  had  predicted.  Idris  read 
Feversham  an  abnormally  long  lecture  that  afternoon. 
Feversham  learned  that  now  God  loved  him  ;  and 
how  Hicks  Pasha's  army  had  been  destroyed.  The 
holy  angels  had  done  that,  not  a  single  shot  was  fired, 
not  a  single  spear  thrown  by  the  Mahdi's  soldiers. 
The  spears  flew  from  their  hands  by  the  angels' 
guidance   and  pierced  the  unbelievers.     Feversham 


336  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

heard  for  the  first  time  of  a  most  convenient  spirit, 
Nebbi  Khiddr,  who  was  the  Khalifa's  eyes  and  ears 
and  reported  to  him  all  that  went  on  in  the  gaol.  It 
was  pointed  out  to  Feversham  that  if  Nebbi  Khiddr 
reported  against  him,  he  would  have  heavier  shackles 
riveted  upon  his  feet,  and  many  unpleasant  things 
would  happen.  At  last  came  the  exordium  about  the 
starving  children,  and  Feversham  begged  Idris  to 
take  fifteen  dollars. 

Trench's  plan  succeeded.  That  night  Feversham 
slept  in  the  open,  and  two  nights  later  Trench  lay 
down  beside  him.  Overhead  was  a  clear  sky  and  the 
blazing  stars. 

"  Only  three  more  days,"  said  Feversham,  and  he 
heard  his  companion  draw  in  a  long  breath.     For  a 
while  they  lay  side  by  side  in  silence,  breathing  the 
cool  night  air,  and  then  Trench  said  :  — 
"  Are  you  awake  ? " 
"Yes." 

"  Well,"  and  with  some  hesitation  he  made  that 
confidence  which  he  had  repressed  on  the  day  when 
they  sat  upon  the  foreshore  of  the  Nile.  "  Each 
man  has  his  particular  weak  spot  of  sentiment,  I  sup- 
pose. I  have  mine.  I  am  not  a  marrying  man,  so 
it's  not  sentiment  of  that  kind.  Perhaps  you  will 
laugh  at  it.  It  isn't  merely  that  I  loathe  this  squalid, 
shadeless,  vile  town  of  Omdurman,  or  the  horrors  of 
its  prison.  It  isn't  merely  that  I  hate  the  emptiness 
of  those  desert  wastes.  It  isn't  merely  that  I  am 
sick  of  the  palm  trees  of  Khartum,  or  these  chains  or 
the  whips  of  the  gaolers.  But  there's  something- 
more.  I  want  to  die  at  home,  and  I  have  been  des- 
perately afraid  so  often  that  I   should  die  here.     I 


PLANS    OF   ESCAPE  337 

want  to  die  at  home  —  not  merely  in  my  own  country, 
but  in  my  own  village,  and  be  buried  there  under  the 
trees  I  know,  in  the  sight  of  the  church  and  the 
houses  I  know,  and  the  trout  stream  where  I  fished 
when  I  was  a  boy.     You'll  laugh,  no  doubt." 

Feversham  was  not  laughing.  The  words  had  a 
queer  ring  of  familiarity  to  him,  and  he  knew  why. 
They  never  had  actually  been  spoken  to  him,  but  they 
might  have  been  and  by  Ethne  Eustace. 

"  No,  I  am  not  laughing,"  he  answered.  "  I  under- 
stand." And  he  spoke  with  a  warmth  of  tone  which 
rather  surprised  Trench.  And  indeed  an  actual 
friendship  sprang  up  between  the  two  men,  and  it 
dated  from  that  night. 

It  was  a  fit  moment  for  confidences.  Lying  side 
by  side  in  that  enclosure,  they  made  them  one  to  the 
other  in  low  voices.  The  shouts  and  yells  came 
muffled  from  within  the  House  of  Stone,  and  gave  to 
them  both  a  feeling  that  they  were  well  off.  They 
could  breathe  ;  they  could  see  ;  no  low  roof  oppressed 
them ;  they  were  in  the  cool  of  the  night  air.  That 
night  air  would  be  very  cold  before  morning  and  wake 
them  to  shiver  in  their  rags  and  huddle  together  in 
their  corner.  But  at  present  they  lay  comfortably 
upon  their  backs  with  their  hands  clasped  behind 
their  heads  and  watched  the  great  stars  and  planets 
burn  in  the  blue  dome  of  sky. 

"It  will  be  strange  to  find  them  dim  and  small 
again,"  said  Trench. 

"There  will  be  compensations,"  answered  Fever- 
sham,  with  a  laugh ;  and  they  fell  to  making  plans  of 
what  they  would  do  when  they  had  crossed  the  desert 
and  the  Mediterranean  and  the  continent  of  Europe, 


338  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

and  had  come  to  their  own  country  of  dim  small  stars. 
Fascinated  and  enthralled  by  the  pictures  which  the 
simplest  sentence,  the  most  commonplace  phrase, 
through  the  magic  of  its  associations  was  able  to 
evoke  in  their  minds,  they  let  the  hours  slip  by  un- 
noticed. They  were  no  longer  prisoners  in  that  bar- 
barous town  which  lay  a  murky  stain  upon  the 
solitary  wide  spaces  of  sand ;  they  were  in  their  own 
land,  following  their  old  pursuits.  They  were  stand- 
ing outside  clumps  of  trees,  guns  in  their  hands, 
while  the  sharp  cry,  "  Mark  !  Mark ! "  came  to  their 
ears.  Trench  heard  again  the  unmistakable  rattle  of 
the  reel  of  his  fishing-rod  as  he  wound  in  his  line  upon 
the  bank  of  his  trout  stream.  They  talked  of  theatres 
in  London,  and  the  last  plays  which  they  had  seen, 
the  last  books  which  they  had  read  six  years  ago. 

"There  goes  the  Great  Bear,"  said  Trench,  sud- 
denly. "It  is  late."  The  tail  of  the  constellation 
was  dipping  behind  the  thorn  hedge  of  the  zareeba. 
They  turned  over  on  their  sides. 

"  Three  more  days,"  said  Trench. 

"  Only  three  more  days,"  Feversham  replied.  And 
in  a  minute  they  were  neither  in  England  nor  the 
Soudan ;  the  stars  marched  to  the  morning  unnoticed 
above  their  heads.  They  were  lost  in  the  pleasant 
countries  of  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

COLONEL    TRENCH    ASSUMES    A    KNOWLEDGE    OF 
CHEMISTRY 

"Three  more  days."  Both  men  fell  asleep  with 
these  words  upon  their  lips.  But  the  next  morning 
Trench  waked  up  and  complained  of  a  fever ;  and 
the  fever  rapidly  gained  upon  him,  so  that  before  the 
afternoon  had  come  he  was  light-headed,  and  those 
services  which  he  had  performed  for  Feversham, 
Feversham  had  now  to  perform  for  him.  The  thou- 
sand nights  of  the  House  of  Stone  had  done  their 
work.  But  it  was  no  mere  coincidence  that  Trench 
should  suddenly  be  struck  down  by  them  at  the  very 
moment  when  the  door  of  his  prison  was  opening. 
The  great  revulsion  of  joy  which  had  come  to  him  so 
unexpectedly  had  been  too  much  for  his  exhausted 
body.  The  actual  prospect  of  escape  had  been  the 
crowning  trial  which  he  could  not  endure. 

"  In  a  few  days  he  will  be  well,"  said  Feversham. 
"  It  is  nothing." 

"  It  is  Umm  Sabba/i,"  answered  Ibrahim,  shaking 
his  head,  the  terrible  typhus  fever  which  had  struck 
down  so  many  in  that  infected  gaol  and  carried  them 
off  upon  the  seventh  day. 

Feversham  refused  to  believe.  "  It  is  nothing,"  he 
repeated  in  a  sort  of  passionate  obstinacy  ;  but  in  his 

339 


34o  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

mind  there  ran  another  question,  "Will  the  men 
with  the  camels  wait  ?  "  Each  day  as  he  went  to  the 
Nile  he  saw  Abou  Fatma  in  the  blue  robe  at  his  post ; 
each  day  the  man  made  his  sign,  and  each  day  Fe- 
versham  gave  no  answer.  Meanwhile  with  Ibrahim's 
help  he  nursed  Trench.  The  boy  came  daily  to  the 
prison  with  food ;  he  was  sent  out  to  buy  tamarinds, 
dates,  and  roots,  out  of  which  Ibrahim  brewed  cool- 
ing draughts.  Together  they  carried  Trench  from 
shade  to  shade  as  the  sun  moved  across  the  zareeba. 
Some  further  assistance  was  provided  for  the  starving 
family  of  Idris,  and  the  forty-pound  chains  which 
Trench  wore  were  consequently  removed.  He  was 
given  vegetable  marrow  soaked  in  salt  water,  his 
mouth  was  packed  with  butter,  his  body  anointed  and 
wrapped  close  in  camel-cloths.  The  fever  took  its 
course,  and  on  the  seventh  day  Ibrahim  said :  — 
"  This  is  the  last.  To-night  he  will  die." 
"  No,"  replied  Feversham,  "  that  is  impossible. 
'  In  his  own  parish,'  he  said,  '  beneath  the  trees  he 
knew.'  Not  here,  no."  And  he  spoke  again  with  a 
passionate  obstinacy.  He  was  no  longer  thinking  of 
the  man  in  the  blue  robe  outside  the  prison  wails,  or 
of  the  chances  of  escape.  The  fear  that  the  third 
feather  would  never  be  brought  back  to  Ethne,  that 
she  would  never  have  the  opportunity  to  take  back 
the  fourth  of  her  own  free  will,  no  longer  troubled 
him.  Even  that  great  hope  of  "  the  afterwards  "  was 
for  the  moment  banished  from  his  mind.  He  thought 
only  of  Trench  and  the  few  awkward  words  he  had 
spoken  in  the  corner  of  the  zareeba  on  the  first  night 
when  they  lay  side  by  side  under  the  sky.  "No," 
he  repeated,  "  he  must  not  die  here."    And  through 


TRENCH'S    KNOWLEDGE    OF    CHEMISTRY     341 

all  that  day  and  night  he  watched  by  Trench's  side 
the  long  hard  battle  between  life  and  death.  At  one 
moment  it  seemed  that  the  three  years  of  the  House 
of  Stone  must  win  the  victory,  at  another  that 
Trench's  strong  constitution  and  wiry  frame  would 
get  the  better  of  the  three  years. 

For  that  night,  at  all  events,  they  did,  and  the 
struggle  was  prolonged.  The  dangerous  seventh  day 
was  passed.  Even  Ibrahim  began  to  gain  hope ;  and 
on  the  thirteenth  day  Trench  slept  and  did  not  ram- 
ble during  his  sleep,  and  when  he  waked  it  was  with 
a  clear  head.  He  found  himself  alone,  and  so 
swathed  in  camel-cloths  that  he  could  not  stir ;  but 
the  heat  of  the  day  was  past,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
House  of  Stone  lay  black  upon  the  sand  of  the  za- 
reeba.  He  had  not  any  wish  to  stir,  and  he  lay  won- 
dering idly  how  long  he  had  been  ill.  While  he 
wondered  he  heard  the  shouts  of  the  gaolers,  the  cries 
of  the  prisoners  outside  the  zareeba  and  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  river.  The  gate  was  opened,  and  the 
prisoners  flocked  in.  Feversham  was  among  them, 
and  he  walked  straight  to  Trench's  corner. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  cried.  "  I  would  not  have  left 
you,  but  I  was  compelled.  We  have  been  unloading 
boats  all  day."  And  he  dropped  in  fatigue  by 
Trench's  side. 

"  How  long  have  I  lain  ill  ? "  asked  Trench. 

"Thirteen  days." 

"  It  will  be  a  month  before  I  can  travel.  You  must 
go,  Feversham.  You  must  leave  me  here,  and  go 
while  you  still  can.  Perhaps  when  you  come  to 
Assouan  you  can  do  something  for  me.  I  could  not 
move  at  present.     You  will  go  to-morrow  ?  " 


342  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"No,  I  should  not  go  without  you  in  any  case," 
answered  Feversham.     "  As  it  is,  it  is  too  late." 

"Too  late?"  Trench  repeated.  He  took  in  the 
meaning  of  the  words  but  slowly;  he  was  almost 
reluctant  to  be  disturbed  by  their  mere  sound;  he 
wished  just  to  lie  idle  for  a  long  time  in  the  cool  of 
the  sunset.  But  gradually  the  import  of  what  Fever- 
sham  had  said  forced  itself  into  his  mind. 

"  Too  late  ?  Then  the  man  in  the  blue  gown  has 
gone  ? " 

"  Yes.  He  spoke  to  me  yesterday  by  the  river. 
The  camel  men  would  wait  no  longer.  They  were 
afraid  of  detection,  and  meant  to  return  whether  we 
went  with  them  or  not." 

"You  should  have  gone  with  them,"  said  Trench. 
For  himself  he  did  not  at  that  moment  care  whether 
he  was  to  live  in  the  prison  all  his  life,  so  long  as  he 
was  allowed  quietly  to  lie  where  he  was  for  a  long 
time;  and  it  was  without  any  expression  of  despair 
that  he  added,  "  So  our  one  chance  is  lost." 

"  No,  deferred,"  replied  Feversham.  "  The  man 
who  watched  by  the  river  in  the  blue  gown  brought 
me  paper,  a  pen,  and  some  wood-soot  mixed  with 
water.  He  was  able  to  drop  them  by  my  side  as  I 
lay  upon  the  ground.  I  hid  them  beneath  my  jibbeh, 
and  last  night — there  was  a  moon  last  night — I 
wrote  to  a  Greek  merchant  who  keeps  a  cafi  at 
Wadi  Haifa.  I  gave  him  the  letter  this  afternoon, 
and  he  has  gone.  He  will  deliver  it  and  receive 
money.  In  six  months,  in  a  year  at  the  latest,  he 
will  be  back  in  Omdurman." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Trench.  "He  will  ask  for 
another  letter,  so  that  he  may  receive  more  money, 


TRENCH'S   KNOWLEDGE    OF   CHEMISTRY    343 

and  again  he  will  say  that  in  six  months  or  a  year  he 
will  be  back  in  Omdurman.     I  know  these  people." 

"  You  do  not  know  Abou  Fatma.  He  was  Gor- 
don's servant  over  there  before  Khartum  fell ;  he  has 
been  mine  since.  He  came  with  me  to  Obak,  and 
waited  there  while  I  went  down  to  Berber.  He 
risked  his  life  in  coming  to  Omdurman  at  all. 
Within  six  months  he  will  be  back,  you  may  be  very 
sure." 

Trench  did  not  continue  the  argument.  He  let  his 
eyes  wander  about  the  enclosure,  and  they  settled  at 
last  upon  a  pile  of  newly  turned  earth  which  lay  in 
one  corner. 

"  What  are  they  digging  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  well,"  answered  Feversham. 

11 A  well  ? "  said  Trench,  fretfully,  "  and  so  close  to 
the  Nile  !     Why  ?     What's  the  object  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Feversham.  Indeed  he  did 
not  know,  but  he  suspected.  With  a  great  fear  at 
his  heart  he  suspected  the  reason  why  the  well  was 
being  dug  in  the  enclosure  of  the  prison.  He  would 
not,  however,  reveal  his  suspicion  until  his  companion 
was  strong  enough  to  bear  the  disappointment  which 
belief  in  it  would  entail.  But  within  a  few  days  his 
suspicion  was  proved  true.  It  was  openly  announced 
that  a  high  wall  was  to  be  built  about  the  House  of 
Stone.  Too  many  prisoners  had  escaped  in  their  fet- 
ters along  the  Nile  bank.  Henceforward  they  were 
to  be  kept  from  year's  beginning  to  year's  end  within 
the  wall.  The  prisoners  built  it  themselves  of  mud- 
bricks  dried  in  the  sun.  Feversham  took  his  share 
in  the  work,  and  Trench,  as  soon  almost  as  he  could 
stand,  was  joined  with  him. 


344  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  Here's  our  last  hope  gone,"  he  said ;  and  though 
Feversham  did  not  openly  agree,  in  spite  of  himself 
his  heart  began  to  consent. 

They  piled  the  bricks  one  upon  the  other  and  mor- 
tised them.  Each  day  the  wall  rose  a  foot.  With 
their  own  hands  they  closed  themselves  in.  Twelve 
feet  high  the  wall  stood  when  they  had  finished  it  — 
twelve  feet  high,  and  smooth  and  strong.  There 
was  never  a  projection  from  its  surface  on  which  a 
foot  could  rest ;  it  could  not  be  broken  through  in  a 
night.  Trench  and  Feversham  contemplated  it  in 
despair.  The  very  palm  trees  of  Khartum  were  now 
hidden  from  their  eyes.  A  square  of  bright  blue  by 
day,  a  square  of  dark  blue  by  night,  jewelled  with 
points  of  silver  and  flashing  gold,  limited  their  world. 
Trench  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  I  daren't  look  at  it,"  he  said  in  a  broken  voice. 
"  We  have  been  building  our  own  coffin,  Feversham, 
that's  the  truth  of  it."  And  then  he  cast  up  his  arms 
and  cried  aloud :  "  Will  they  never  come  up  the  Nile, 
the  gunboats  and  the  soldiers  ?  Have  they  forgotten 
us  in  England  ?  Good  God !  have  they  forgotten 
us  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  replied  Feversham.  "  We  shall  find  a 
way  of  escape,  never  fear.  We  must  wait  six 
months.  Well,  we  have  both  of  us  waited  years. 
Six  months, — what  are  they?" 

But,  though  he  spoke  stoutly  for  his  comrade's 
sake,  his  own  heart  sank  within  him. 

The  details  of  their  life  during  the  six  months  are 
not  to  be  dwelt  upon.  In  that  pestilent  enclosure 
only  the  myriad  vermin  lived  lives  of  comfort.  No 
news  filtered  in  from  the  world  outside.     They  fed 


TRENCH'S  KNOWLEDGE   OF  CHEMISTRY     345 

upon  their  own  thoughts,  so  that  the  sight  of  a  lizard 
upon  the  wall  became  an  occasion  for  excitement. 
They  were  stung  by  scorpions  at  night ;  they  were  at 
times  flogged  by  their  gaolers  by  day.  They  lived 
at  the  mercy  of  the  whims  of  Idris-es-Saier  and  that 
peculiar  spirit  Nebbi  Khiddr,  who  always  reported 
against  them  to  the  Khalifa  just  at  the  moment  when 
Idris  was  most  in  need  of  money  for  his  starving 
family.  Religious  men  were  sent  by  the  Khalifa  to 
convert  them  to  the  only  true  religion;  and  indeed 
the  long  theological  disputations  in  the  enclosure  be- 
came events  to  which  both  men  looked  forward  with 
eagerness.  At  one  time  they  would  be  freed  from 
the  heavier  shackles  and  allowed  to  sleep  in  the  open ; 
at  another,  without  reason,  those  privileges  would  be 
withdrawn,  and  they  struggled  for  their  lives  within 
the  House  of  Stone. 

The  six  months  came  to  an  end.  The  seventh 
began ;  a  fortnight  of  it  passed,  and  the  boy  who 
brought  Feversham  food  could  never  cheer  their 
hearts  with  word  that  Abou  Fatma  had  come  back. 

"  He  will  never  come,"  said  Trench,  in  despair. 

"Surely  he  will  —  if  he  is  alive,"  said  Feversham. 
"  But  is  he  alive  ? " 

The  seventh  month  passed,  and  one  morning  at 
the  beginning  of  the  eighth  there  came  two  of  the 
Khalifa's  bodyguard  to  the  prison,  who  talked  with 
Idris.     Idris  advanced  to  the  two  prisoners. 

"  Verily  God  is  good  to  you,  you  men  from  the  bad 
world,"  he  said.  "You  are  to  look  upon  the  counte- 
nance of  the  Khalifa.     How  happy  you  should  be!" 

Trench  and  Feversham  rose  up  from  the  ground  in 
no  very  happy  frame  of  mind.     "  What  does  he  want 


346  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

with  us  ?  Is  this  the  end  ?  "  The  questions  started 
up  clear  in  both  their  minds.  They  followed  the  two 
guards  out  through  the  door  and  up  the  street  towards 
the  Khalifa's  house. 

"  Does  it  mean  death  ? "  said  Feversham. 

Trench  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed  sourly. 
"  It  is  on  the  cards  that  Nebbi  Khiddr  has  suggested 
something  of  the  kind,"  he  said. 

They  were  led  into  the  great  parade-ground  before 
the  mosque,  and  thence  into  the  Khalifa's  house, 
where  another  white  man  sat  in  attendance  upon  the 
threshold.  Within  the  Khalifa  was  seated  upon  an 
angareb,  and  a  grey-bearded  Greek  stood  beside  him. 
The  Khalifa  remarked  to  them  that  they  were  both 
to  be  employed  upon  the  manufacture  of  gunpowder, 
with  which  the  armies  of  the  Turks  were  shortly  to 
be  overwhelmed. 

Feversham  was  on  the  point  of  disclaiming  any 
knowledge  of  the  process,  but  before  he  could  open 
his  lips  he  heard  Trench  declaring  in  fluent  Arabic 
that  there  was  nothing  connected  with  gunpowder 
which  he  did  not  know  about ;  and  upon  his  words 
they  were  both  told  they  were  to  be  employed  at  the 
powder  factory  under  the  supervision  of  the  Greek. 

For  that  Greek  both  prisoners  will  entertain  a  re- 
gard to  their  dying  day.  There  was  in  the  world  a 
true  Samaritan.  It  was  out  of  sheer  pity,  knowing 
the  two  men  to  be  herded  in  the  House  of  Stone, 
that  he  suggested  to  the  Khalifa  their  employment, 
and  the  same  pity  taught  him  to  cover  the  deficiencies 
of  their  knowledge. 

"  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  the  making  of 
gunpowder  except  that  crystals  are  used,"  said  Trench. 


TRENCH'S  KNOWLEDGE  OF  CHEMISTRT    347 

"But  we  shall  leave  the  prison  each  day,  and  that 
is  something,  though  we  return  each  night.  Who 
knows  when  a  chance  of  escape  may  come  ? " 

The  powder  factory  lay  in  the  northward  part  of  the 
town,  and  on  the  bank  of  the  Nile  just  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  great  mud  wall  and  at  the  back  of 
the  slave  market.  Every  morning  the  two  prisoners 
were  let  out  from  the  prison  door,  they  tramped  along 
the  river-bank  on  the  outside  of  the  town  wall,  and 
came  into  the  powder  factory  past  the  storehouses  of 
the  Khalifa's  bodyguard.  Every  evening  they  went 
back  by  the  same  road  to  the  House  of  Stone.  No 
guard  was  sent  with  them,  since  flight  seemed  impos- 
sible, and  each  journey  that  they  made  they  looked 
anxiously  for  the  man  in  the  blue  robe.  But  the 
months  passed,  and  May  brought  with  it  the  summer. 

"Something  has  happened  to  Abou  Fatma,"  said 
Feversham.  "  He  has  been  caught  at  Berber  per- 
haps.    In  some  way  he  has  been  delayed." 

"  He  will  not  come,"  said  Trench. 

Feversham  could  no  longer  pretend  to  hope  that 
he  would.  He  did  not  know  of  a  sword-thrust  re- 
ceived by  Abou  Fatma,  as  he  fled  through  Berber  on 
his  return  from  Omdurman.  He  had  been  recognised 
by  one  of  his  old  gaolers  in  that  town,  and  had  got 
cheaply  off  with  the  one  thrust  in  his  thigh.  From  that 
wound  he  had  through  the  greater  part  of  this  year 
been  slowly  recovering  in  the  hospital  at  Assouan. 
But  though  Feversham  heard  nothing  of  Abou  Fatma, 
towards  the  end  of  May  he  received  news  that  others 
were  working  for  his  escape.  As  Trench  and  he 
passed  in  the  dusk  of  one  evening  between  the  store- 
houses and  the  town  wall,  a  man  in  the  shadow  of 


j48  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

one  of  the  narrow  alleys  which  opened  from  the  store- 
houses whispered  to  them  to  stop.  Trench  knelt 
down  upon  the  ground  and  examined  his  foot  as 
though  a  stone  had  cut  it,  and  as  he  kneeled  the  man 
walked  past  them  and  dropped  a  slip  of  paper  at 
their  feet.  He  was  a  Suakin  merchant,  who  had  a 
booth  in  the  grain  market  of  Omdurman.  Trench 
picked  up  the  paper,  hid  it  in  his  hand  and  limped  on, 
with  Feversham  at  his  side.  There  was  no  address 
or  name  upon  the  outside,  and  as  soon  as  they  had 
left  the  houses  behind,  and  had  only  the  wall  upon 
their  right  and  the  Nile  upon  their  left,  Trench  sat 
down  again.  There  was  a  crowd  about  the  water's 
edge,  men  passed  up  and  down  between  the  crowd 
and  them.  Trench  took  his  foot  into  his  lap  and  ex- 
amined the  sole.  But  at  the  same  time  he  unfolded 
the  paper  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  and  read  the  con- 
tents aloud.  He  could  hardly  read  them,  his  voice 
so  trembled.  Feversham  could  hardly  hear  them, 
the  blood  so  sang  in  his  ears. 

"  A  man  will  bring  to  you  a  box  of  matches.  When 
he  comes  trust  him.  —  Sutch."  And  he  asked,  "  Who 
is  Sutch  ? " 

"A  great  friend  of  mine,"  said  Feversham.  "He 
is  in  Egypt,  then  !     Does  he  say  where  ?  " 

"No;  but  since  Mohammed  Ali,  the  grain  mer- 
chant, dropped  the  paper,  we  may  be  sure  he  is  at 
Suakin.  A  man  with  a  box  of  matches  !  Think,  we 
may  meet  him  to-night !  " 

But  it  was  a  month  later  when,  in  the  evening,  an 
Arab  pushed  past  them  on  the  river-bank  and  said : 
"  I  am  the  man  with  the  matches.  To-morrow  by  the 
storehouse   at  this  hour."     And  as  he  walked   past 


TRENCH'S    KNOWLEDGE    OF    CHEMISTRY     349 

them  he  dropped  a  box  of  coloured  matches  on  the 
ground.     Feversham  stooped  instantly. 

"  Don't  touch  them,"  said  Trench,  and  he  pressed 
the  box  into  the  ground  with  his  foot  and  walked  on. 

"  Sutch  !  "  exclaimed  Feversham.  "So  he  comes 
to  our  help !     How  did  he  know  that  I  was  here  ? " 

Trench  fairly  shook  with  excitement  as  he  walked. 
He  did  not  speak  of  the  great  new  hope  which  so 
suddenly  came  to  them,  for  he  dared  not.  He  tried 
even  to  pretend  to  himself  that  no  message  at  all  had 
come.  He  was  afraid  to  let  his  mind  dwell  upon  the 
subject.  Both  men  slept  brokenly  that  night,  and 
every  time  they  waked  it  was  with  a  dim  conscious- 
ness that  something  great  and  wonderful  had  hap- 
pened. Feversham,  as  he  lay  upon  his  back  and 
gazed  upwards  at  the  stars,  had  a  fancy  that  he  had 
fallen  asleep  in  the  garden  of  Broad  Place,  on  the 
Surrey  hills,  and  that  he  had  but  to  raise  his  head  to 
see  the  dark  pines  upon  his  right  hand  and  his  left, 
and  but  to  look  behind  to  see  the  gables  of  the  house 
against  the  sky.  He  fell  asleep  towards  dawn,  and 
within  an  hour  was  waked  up  by  a  violent  shaking. 
He  saw  Trench  bending  over  him  with  a  great  fear 
on  his  face. 

"Suppose  they  keep  us  in  the  prison  to-day,"  he 
whispered  in  a  shaking  voice,  plucking  at  Feversham. 
"It  has  just  occurred  to  me!  Suppose  they  did 
that ! " 

"Why  should  they?"  answered  Feversham;  but 
the  same  fear  caught  hold  of  him,  and  they  sat  dread- 
ing the  appearance  of  Idris,  lest  he  should  have  some 
such  new  order  to  deliver.  But  Idris  crossed  the 
yard  and  unbolted  the  prison  door  without  a  look  at 


350  THE    FOUR    FEJTHERS 

them.  Fighting,  screaming,  jammed  together  in  the 
entrance,  pulled  back,  thrust  forwards,  the  captives 
struggled  out  into  the  air,  and  among  them  was  one 
who  ran,  foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  dashed  his  head 
against  the  wall. 

"  He  is  mad !  "  said  Trench,  as  the  gaolers  secured 
him  ;  and  since  Trench  was  unmanned  that  morning 
he  began  to  speak  rapidly  and  almost  with  incohe- 
rence. "  That's  what  I  have  feared,  Feversham,  that 
I  should  go  mad.  To  die,  even  here,  one  could  put 
up  with  that  without  overmuch  regret ;  but  to  go 
mad ! "  and  he  shivered.  "  If  this  man  with  the 
matches  proves  false  to  us,  Feversham,  I  shall  be 
near  to  it  —  very  near  to  it.  A  man  one  day,  a  rav- 
ing, foaming  idiot  the  next  —  a  thing  to  be  put  away 
out  of  sight,  out  of  hearing.  God,  but  that's  hor- 
rible !  "  and  he  dropped  his  head  between  his  hands, 
and  dared  not  look  up  until  Idris  crossed  to  them  and 
bade  them  go  about  their  work.  What  work  they  did 
in  the  factory  that  day  neither  knew.  They  were 
only  aware  that  the  hours  passed  with  an  extraordi- 
nary slowness,  but  the  evening  came  at  last. 

"  Among  the  storehouses,"  said  Trench.  They 
dived  into  the  first  alley  which  they  passed,  and  turn- 
ing a  corner  saw  the  man  who  had  brought  the 
matches. 

"  I  am  Abdul  Kader,"  he  began  at  once.  "  I  have 
come  to  arrange  for  your  escape.  But  at  present 
flight  is  impossible  ; "  and  Trench  swayed  upon  his 
feet  as  he  heard  the  word. 

"  Impossible  ?  "  asked  Feversham. 

"Yes.  I  brought  three  camels  to  Omdurman,  of 
which  two  have  died.     The  Effendi  at  Suakin  gave 


TRENCH'S   KNOWLEDGE    OF   CHEMISTRY    351 

me  money,  but  not  enough.  I  could  not  arrange  for 
relays,  but  if  you  will  give  me  a  letter  to  the  Effendi 
telling  him  to  give  me  two  hundred  pounds,  then  I 
will  have  everything  ready  and  come  again  within 
three  months." 

Trench  turned  his  back  so  that  his  companion 
might  not  see  his  face.  All  his  spirit  had  gone  from 
him  at  this  last  stroke  of  fortune.  The  truth  was 
clear  to  him,  appallingly  clear.  Abdul  Kader  was 
not  going  to  risk  his  life ;  he  would  be  the  shuttle 
going  backwards  and  forwards  between  Omdurman 
and  Suakin  as  long  as  Feversham  cared  to  write  let- 
ters and  Sutch  to  pay  money.  But  the  shuttle  would 
do  no  weaving. 

"  I  have  nothing  with  which  to  write,"  said  Fever- 
sham,  and  Abdul  Kader  produced  them. 

"  Be  quick,"  he  said.  "  Write  quickly,  lest  we  be 
discovered."  And  Feversham  wrote ;  but  though  he 
wrote  as  Abdul  suggested,  the  futility  of  his  writing 
was  as  clear  to  him  as  to  Trench. 

"  There  is  the  letter,"  he  said,  and  he  handed  it  to 
Abdul,  and,  taking  Trench  by  the  arm,  walked  with- 
out another  word  away. 

They  passed  out  of  the  alley  and  came  again  to 
the  great  mud  wall.  It  was  sunset.  To  their  left  the 
river  gleamed  with  changing  lights  —  here  it  ran  the 
colour  of  an  olive,  there  rose  pink,  and  here  again  a 
brilliant  green;  above  their  heads  the  stars  were  com- 
ing out,  in  the  east  it  was  already  dusk ;  and  behind 
them  in  the  town,  drums  were  beginning  to  beat  with 
their  barbaric  monotone.  Both  men  walked  with 
their  chins  sunk  upon  their  breasts,  their  eyes  upon 
the  ground.     They  had  come  to  the  end  of  hope, 


352  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

they  were  possessed  with  a  lethargy  of  despair. 
Feversham  thought  not  at  all  of  the  pine  trees  on 
the  Surrey  hills,  nor  did  Trench  have  any  dread  that 
something  in  his  head  would  snap  and  that  which 
made  him  man  be  reft  from  him.  They  walked 
slowly,  as  though  their  fetters  had  grown  ten  times 
their  weight,  and  without  a  word.  So  stricken,  in- 
deed, were  they  that  an  Arab  turned  and  kept  pace 
beside  them,  and  neither  noticed  his  presence.  In  a 
few  moments  the  Arab  spoke:  — 

"  The  camels  are  ready  in  the  desert,  ten  miles  to 
the  west." 

But  he  spoke  in  so  low  a  voice,  and  those  to  whom 
he  spoke  were  so  absorbed  in  misery,  that  the  words 
passed  unheard.  He  repeated  them,  and  Feversham 
looked  up.  Quite  slowly  their  meaning  broke  in  on 
Feversham's  mind  ;  quite  slowly  he  recognised  the 
man  who  uttered  them. 

"Abou  Fatma!  "  he  said. 

"  Hoosh  !  "  returned  Abou  Fatma,  "  the  camels  are 
ready." 

"Now?" 

"Now." 

Trench  leaned  against  the  wall  with  his  eyes  closed, 
and  the  face  of  a  sick  man.  It  seemed  that  he  would 
swoon,  and  Feversham  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"Is  it  true?"  Trench  asked  faintly;  and  before 
Feversham  could  answer  Abou  Fatma  went  on :  — 

"Walk  forwards  very  slowly.  Before  you  reach 
the  end  of  the  wall  it  will  be  dusk.  Draw  your 
cloaks  over  your  heads,  wrap  these  rags  about  your 
chains,  so  that  they  do  not  rattle.  Then  turn  and 
come  back,  go  close  to  the  water  beyond  the  store- 


TRENCH'S    KNOWLEDGE    OF    CHEMISTRT    353 

houses.  I  will  be  there  with  a  man  to  remove  your 
chains.  But  keep  your  faces  well  covered  and  do 
not  stop.     He  will  think  you  slaves." 

With  that  he  passed  some  rags  to  them,  holding 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  while  they  stood  close 
to  him.  Then  he  turned  and  hurried  back.  Very 
slowly  Feversham  and  Trench  walked  forwards  in  the 
direction  of  the  prison ;  the  dusk  crept  across  the 
river,  mounted  the  long  slope  of  sand,  enveloped 
them.  They  sat  down  and  quickly  wrapped  the  rags 
about  their  chains  and  secured  them  there.  From 
the  west  the  colours  of  the  sunset  had  altogether 
faded,  the  darkness  gathered  quickly  about  them. 
They  turned  and  walked  back  along  the  road  they 
had  come.  The  drums  were  more  numerous  now, 
and  above  the  wall  there  rose  a  glare  of  light.  By 
the  time  they  had  reached  the  water's  edge  opposite 
the  storehouses  it  was  dark.  Abou  Fatma  was  al- 
ready waiting  with  his  blacksmith.  The  chains  were 
knocked  off  without  a  word  spoken. 

"  Come,"  said  Abou.  "  There  will  be  no  moon  to- 
night. How  long  before  they  discover  you  are 
gone  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  Perhaps  already  Idris  has  missed 
us.  Perhaps  he  will  not  till  morning.  There  are 
many  prisoners." 

They  ran  up  the  slope  of  sand,  between  the  quar- 
ters of  the  tribes,  across  the  narrow  width  of  the  city, 
through  the  cemetery.  On  the  far  side  of  the  ceme- 
tery stood  a  disused  house  ;  a  man  rose  up  in  the 
doorway  as  they  approached,  and  went  in. 

"Wait  here,"  said  Abou  Fatma,  and  he  too  went 
into    the    house.      In    a    moment    both    men    came 
2  A 


354 


THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 


back,  and  each  one  led  a  camel  and  made  it 
kneel. 

"Mount,"  said  Abou  Fatma.  "Bring  its  head 
round  and  hold  it  as  you  mount." 

"  I  know  the  trick,"  said  Trench. 

Feversham  climbed  up  behind  him,  the  two  Arabs 
mounted  the  second  camel. 

"  Ten  miles  to  the  west,"  said  Abou  Fatma,  and  he 
struck  the  camel  on  the  flanks. 

Behind  them  the  glare  of  the  lights  dwin  '  *d,  the 
tapping  of  the  drums  diminished. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS 

The  '  i  blew  keen  and  cold  from  the  north.  The 
camels,  freshened  by  it,  trotted  out  at  their  fastest 
pace. 

"  Quicker,"  said  Trench,  between  his  teeth. 
"Already  Idris  may  have  missed  us." 

"  KVen  if  he  has,"  replied  Feversham,  "  it  will  take 
time  to  get  men  together  for  a  pursuit,  and  those  men 
must  fetch  their  camels,  and  already  it  is  dark." 

But  although  he  spoke  hopefully,  he  turned  his 
head  again  and  again  towards  the  glare  of  light  above 
Omdurman.  He  could  no  longer  hear  the  tapping 
of  the  drums,  that  was  some  consolation.  But  he 
was  in  a  country  of  silence,  where  men  could  journey 
swiftly  and  yet  make  no  noise.  There  would  be  no 
sound  of  galloping  horses  to  warn  him  that  pursuit 
was  at  his  heels.  Even  at  that  moment  the  Ansar 
soldiers  might  be  riding  within  thirty  paces  of  them, 
and  Feversham  strained  his  eyes  backwards  into  the 
darkness  and  expected  the  glimmer  of  a  white  turban. 
Trench,  however,  never  turned  his  head.  He  rode 
with  his  teeth  set,  looking  forwards.  Yet  fear  was  no 
less  strong  in  him  than  in  Feversham.  Indeed,  it 
was  stronger,  for  he  did  not  look  back  towards  Omdur- 
man because  he  did  not  dare ;  and  though  his  eyes 

355 


356  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

were  fixed  directly  in  front  of  him,  the  things  which 
he  really  saw  were  the  long  narrow  streets  of  the 
town  behind  him,  the  dotted  fires  at  the  corners  of 
the  streets,  and  men  running  hither  and  thither 
among  the  houses,  making  their  quick  search  for  the 
two  prisoners  escaped  from  the  House  of  Stone. 

Once  his  attention  was  diverted  by  a  word  from 
Feversham,  and  he  answered  without  turning  his 
head :  — 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  no  longer  see  the  fires  of  Omdurman." 

"The  golden  blot,  eh,  very  low  down?"  Trench 
answered  in  an  abstracted  voice.  Feversham  did  not 
ask  him  to  explain  what  his  allusion  meant,  nor  could 
Trench  have  disclosed  why  he  had  spoken  it;  the 
words  had  come  back  to  him  suddenly  with  a  feeling 
that  it  was  somehow  appropriate  that  the  vision  which 
was  the  last  thing  to  meet  Feversham's  eyes  as  he  set 
out  upon  his  mission  he  should  see  again  now  that 
that  mission  was  accomplished.  They  spoke  no  more 
until  two  figures  rose  out  of  the  darkness  in  front  of 
them,  at  the  very  feet  of  their  camels,  and  Abou 
Fatma  cried  in  a  low  voice  :  — 

"  Instanna !  " 

They  halted  their  camels  and  made  them  kneel. 

"  The  new  camels  are  here  ?  "  asked  Abou  Fatma, 
and  two  of  the  men  disappeared  for  a  few  minutes 
and  brought  four  camels  up.  Meanwhile  the  saddles 
were  unfastened  and  removed  from  the  camels  Trench 
and  his  companion  had  ridden  out  of  Omdurman. 

"  They  are  good  camels  ?  "  asked  Feversham,  as  he 
helped  to  fix  the  saddles  upon  the  fresh  ones. 

"Of   the   Anafi   breed,"  answered   Abou   Fatma. 


THE    LAST   OF    THE   SOUTHERN   CROSS     357 

"  Quick !    Quick !  "   and  he  looked  anxiously  to  the 
east  and  listened. 

"The  arms?"  said  Trench.  "You  have  them? 
Where  are  they  ?  "  and  he  bent  his  body  and  searched 
the  ground  for  them. 

"  In  a  moment,"  said  Abou  Fatma,  but  it  seemed 
that  Trench  could  hardly  wait  for  that  moment  to 
arrive.  He  showed  even  more  anxiety  to  handle  the 
weapons  than  he  had  shown  fear  that  he  would  be 
overtaken. 

"  There  is  ammunition  ?  "  he  asked  feverishly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  Abou  Fatma,  "ammunition  and 
rifles  and  revolvers."  He  led  the  way  to  a  spot  about 
twenty  yards  from  the  camels,  where  some  long  desert 
grass  rustled  about  their  legs.  He  stooped  and  dug 
into  the  soft  sand  with  his  hands. 

"  Here,"  he  said. 

Trench  flung  himself  upon  the  ground  beside  him 
and  scooped  with  both  hands,  making  all  the  while 
an  inhuman  whimpering  sound  with  his  mouth,  like 
the  noise  a  foxhound  makes  at  a  cover.  There  was 
something  rather  horrible  to  Feversham  in  his  atti- 
tude as  he  scraped  at  the  ground  on  his  knees,  at  the 
action  of  his  hands,  quick  like  the  movements  of  a 
dog's  paws,  and  in  the  whine  of  his  voice.  He  was 
sunk  for  the  time  into  an  animal.  In  a  moment  or 
two  Trench's  fingers  touched  the  lock  and  trigger  of 
a  rifle,  and  he  became  man  again.  He  stood  up 
quietly  with  the  rifle  in  his  hands.  The  other  arms 
were  unearthed,  the  ammunition  shared. 

"  Now,"  said  Trench,  and  he  laughed  with  a  great 
thrill  of  joy  in  the  laugh.  "  Now  I  don't  mind.  Let 
them  follow  from  Omdurman  !     One  thing  is  certain 


358  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

now :  I  shall  never  go  back  there  ;  no,  not  even  if 
/       they  overtake  us,"  and  he  fondled  the  rifle  which  he 
held  and  spoke  to  it  as  though  it  lived. 

Two  of  the  Arabs  mounted  the  old  camels  and 
rode  slowly  away  to  Omdurman.  Abou  Fatma  and 
the  other  remained  with  the  fugitives.  They  mounted 
and  trotted  northeastwards.  No  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  they  had  first  halted  at 
Abou  Fatma's  word. 

All  that  night  they  rode  through  halfa  grass  and 
mimosa  trees  and  went  but  slowly,  but  they  came 
about  sunrise  on  to  flat  bare  ground  broken  with 
small  hillocks. 

"  Are  the  Effendi  tired  ? "  asked  Abou  Fatma. 
"Will  they  stop  and  eat?  There  is  food  upon  the 
saddle  of  each  camel." 

"  No  ;  we  can  eat  as  we  go." 

Dates  and  bread  and  a  draught  of  water  from  a 
zamsheyeh  made  up  their  meal,  and  they  ate  it  as 
they  sat  their  camels.  These,  indeed,  now  that  they 
were  free  of  the  long  desert  grass,  trotted  at  their 
quickest  pace.  And  at  sunset  that  evening  they 
stopped  and  rested  for  an  hour.  All  through  that 
night  they  rode  and  the  next  day,  straining  their  own 
endurance  and  that  of  the  beasts  they  were  mounted 
on,  now  ascending  on  to  high  and  rocky  ground,  now 
traversing  a  valley,  and  now  trotting  fast  across  plains 
of  honey-coloured  sand.  Yet  to  each  man  the  pace 
seemed  always  as  slow  as  a  funeral.  A  mountain 
would  lift  itself  above  the  rim  of  the  horizon  at  sun- 
rise, and  for  the  whole  livelong  day  it  stood  before 
their  eyes,  and  was  never  a  foot  higher  or  an  inch 
nearer.     At  times,  some  men  tilling  a  scanty  patch  of 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    SOUTHERN    CROSS     359 

sorghum  would  send  the  fugitives'  hearts  leaping  in 
their  throats,  and  they  must  make  a  wide  detour ; 
or  again  a  caravan  would  be  sighted  in  the  far  dis- 
tance by  the  keen  eyes  of  Abou  Fatma,  and  they 
made  their  camels  kneel  and  lay  crouched  behind  a 
rock,  with  their  loaded  rifles  in  their  hands.  Ten 
miles  from  Abu  Klea  a  relay  of  fresh  camels  awaited 
them,  and  upon  these  they  travelled,  keeping  a  day's 
march  westward  of  the  Nile.  Thence  they  passed 
through  the  desert  country  of  the  Ababdeh,  and  came 
in  sight  of  a  broad  grey  tract  stretching  across  their 
path. 

"  The  road  from  Berber  to  Merowi,"  said  Abou 
Fatma.  "  North  of  it  we  turn  east  to  the  river.  We 
cross  that  road  to-night ;  and  if  God  wills,  to-morrow 
evening  we  shall  have  crossed  the  Nile." 

"  If  God  wills,"  said  Trench.  "  If  only  He  wills," 
and  he  glanced  about  him  in  a  fear  which  only  in- 
creased the  nearer  they  drew  towards  safety.  They 
were  in  a  country  traversed  by  the  caravans  ;  it  was 
no  longer  safe  to  travel  by  day.  They  dismounted, 
and  all  that  day  they  lay  hidden  behind  a  belt  of 
shrubs  upon  some  high  ground  and  watched  the  road 
and  the  people  like  specks  moving  along  it.  They 
came  down  and  crossed  it  in  the  darkness,  and  for 
the  rest  of  that  night  travelled  hard  towards  the 
river.  As  the  day  broke  Abou  Fatma  again  bade 
them  halt.  They  were  in  a  desolate  open  country, 
whereon  the  smallest  protection  was  magnified  by  the 
surrounding  flatness.  Feversham  and  Trench  gazed 
eagerly  to  their  right.  Somewhere  in  that  direction 
and  within  the  range  of  their  eyesight  flowed  the 
Nile,  but  they  could  not  see  it. 


360  THE   FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  We  must  build  a  circle  of  stones,"  said  Abou 
Fatma,  "and  you  must  lie  close  to  the  ground  within 
it.  I  will  go  forward  to  the  river,  and  see  that  the 
boat  is  ready  and  that  our  friends  are  prepared  for 
us.     I  shall  come  back  after  dark." 

They  gathered  the  stones  quickly  and  made  a  low 
wall  about  a  foot  high  ;  within  this  wall  Feversham 
and  Trench  laid  themselves  down  upon  the  ground 
with  a  water-skin  and  their  rifles  at  their  sides. 

"  You  have  dates,  too,"  said  Abou  Fatma. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  do  not  stir  from  the  hiding-place  till  I  come 
back.  I  will  take  your  camels,  and  bring  you  back 
fresh  ones  in  the  evening."  And  in  company  with 
his  fellow-Arab  he  rode  off  towards  the  river. 

Trench  and  Feversham  dug  out  the  sand  within 
the  stones  and  lay  down,  watching  the  horizon  be- 
tween the  interstices.  For  both  of  them  this  perhaps 
was  the  longest  day  of  their  lives.  They  were  so 
near  to  safety  and  yet  not  safe.  To  Trench's  think- 
ing it  was  longer  than  a  night  in  the  House  of  Stone, 
and  to  Feversham  longer  than  even  one  of  those  days 
six  years  back  when  he  had  sat  in  his  rooms  above 
St.  James's  Park  and  waited  for  the  night  to  fall 
before  he  dared  venture  out  into  the  streets.  They 
were  so  near  to  Berber,  and  the  pursuit  must  needs 
be  close  behind.  Feversham  lay  wondering  how  he 
had  ever  found  the  courage  to  venture  himself  in 
Berber.  They  had  no  shade  to  protect  them  ;  all 
day  the  sun  burnt  pitilessly  upon  their  backs,  and 
within  the  narrow  circle  of  stones  they  had  no  room 
wherein  to  move.  They  spoke  hardly  at  all.  The 
sunset,  however,  came  at  the  last,  the  friendly  dark- 


THE   LAST   OF    THE    SOUTHERN    CROSS     361 

ness  gathered  about  them,  and  a  cool  wind  rustled 
through  the  darkness  across  the  desert. 

"  Listen  ! "  said  Trench ;  and  both  men  as  they 
strained  their  ears  heard  the  soft  padding  of  camels 
very  near  at  hand.  A  moment  later  a  low  whistle 
brought  them  out  of  their  shelter. 

"  We  are  here,"  said  Feversham,  quietly. 

"  God  be  thanked  !  "  said  Abou  Fatma.  "I  have 
good  news  for  you,  and  bad  news  too.  The  boat  is 
ready,  our  friends  are  waiting  for  us,  camels  are  pre- 
pared for  you  on  the  caravan  track  by  the  river-bank 
to  Abu  Hamed.  But  your  escape  is  known,  and  the 
roads  and  the  ferries  are  closely  watched.  Before 
sunrise  we  must  have  struck  inland  from  the  eastern 
bank  of  the  Nile." 

They  crossed  the  river  cautiously  about  one  o'clock 
of  the  morning,  and  sank  the  boat  upon  the  far  side 
of  the  stream.  The  camels  were  waiting  for  them, 
and  they  travelled  inland  and  more  slowly  than  suited 
the  anxiety  of  the  fugitives.  For  the  ground  was 
thickly  covered  with  boulders,  and  the  camels  could 
seldom  proceed  at  any  pace  faster  than  a  walk.  And 
all  through  the  next  day  they  lay  hidden  again  within 
a  ring  of  stones  while  the  camels  were  removed  to 
some  high  ground  where  they  could  graze.  During 
the  next  night,  however,  they  made  good  progress, 
and,  coming  to  the  groves  of  Abu  Hamed  in  two  days, 
rested  for  twelve  hours  there  and  mounted  upon  a 
fresh  relay.  From  Abu  Hamed  their  road  lay  across 
the  great  Nubian  Desert. 

Nowadays  the  traveller  may  journey  through  the 
two  hundred  and  forty  miles  of  that  waterless  plain 
of  coal-black  rocks  and  yellow  sand,  and  sleep  in  his 


362  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

berth  upon  the  way.  The  morning  will  show  to  him, 
perhaps,  a  tent,  a  great  pile  of  coal,  a  water  tank,  and 
a  number  painted  on  a  white  signboard,  and  the  stop- 
page of  the  train  will  inform  him  that  he  has  come  to 
a  station.  Let  him  put  his  head  from  the  window,  he 
will  see  the  long  line  of  telegraph  poles  reaching  from 
the  sky's  rim  behind  him  to  the  sky's  rim  in  front,  and 
huddling  together,  as  it  seems,  with  less  and  less  space 
between  them  the  farther  they  are  away.  Twelve 
hours  will  enclose  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  his 
journey,  unless  the  engine  break  down  or  the  rail  be 
blocked.  But  in  the  days  when  Feversham  and 
Trench  escaped  from  Omdurman  progression  was  not 
so  easy  a  matter.  They  kept  eastward  of  the  present 
railway  and  along  the  line  of  wells  among  the  hills. 
And  on  the  second  night  of  this  stage  of  their  journey 
Trench  shook  Feversham  by  the  shoulders  and  waked 
him  up. 

"  Look,"  he  said,  and  he  pointed  to  the  south. 
"To-night  there's  no  Southern  Cross."  His  voice 
broke  with  emotion.  "  For  six  years,  for  every  night 
of  six  years,  until  this  night,  I  have  seen  the  Southern 
Cross.  How  often  have  I  lain  awake  watching  it, 
wondering  whether  the  night  would  ever  come  when 
I  should  not  see  those  four  slanting  stars  !  I  tell  you, 
Feversham,  this  is  the  first  moment  when  I  have 
really  dared  to  think  that  we  should  escape." 

Both  men  sat  up  and  watched  the  southern  sky 
with  prayers  of  thankfulness  in  their  hearts ;  and 
when  they  fell  asleep  it  was  only  to  wake  up  again  and 
again  with  a  fear  that  they  would  after  all  still  see 
that  constellation  blazing  low  down  towards  the  earth, 
and  to  fall  asleep  again  confident  of  the  issue  of  their 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   SOUTHERN   CROSS     363 

desert  ride.  At  the  end  of  seven  days  they  came  to 
Shof-el-Ain,  a  tiny  well  set  in  a  barren  valley  between 
featureless  ridges,  and  by  the  side  of  that  well  they 
camped.  They  were  in  the  country  of  the  Amrab 
Arabs,  and  had  come  to  an  end  of  their  peril. 

"  We  are  safe,"  cried  Abou  Fatma.  "  God  is  good. 
Northwards  to  Assouan,  westwards  to  Wadi  Haifa, 
we  are  safe !  "  And  spreading  a  cloth  upon  the 
ground  in  front  of  the  kneeling  camels,  he  heaped 
dhurra  before  them.  He  even  went  so  far  in  his 
gratitude  as  to  pat  one  of  the  animals  upon  the  neck, 
and  it  immediately  turned  upon  him  and  snarled. 

Trench  reached  out  his  hand  to  Feversham. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  simply. 

"  No  need  of  thanks,"  answered  Feversham,  and  he 
did  not  take  the  hand.  "  I  served  myself  from  first 
to  last." 

"  You  have  learned  the  churlishness  of  a  camel," 
cried  Trench.  "  A  camel  will  carry  you  where  you 
want  to  go,  will  carry  you  till  it  drops  dead,  and  yet 
if  you  show  your  gratitude  it  resents  and  bites.  Hang 
it  all,  Feversham,  there's  my  hand." 

Feversham  untied  a  knot  in  the  breast  of  his  jib- 
beh  and  took  out  three  white  feathers,  two  small, 
the  feathers  of  a  heron,  the  other  large,  an  ostrich 
feather  broken  from  a  fan. 

"  Will  you  take  yours  back  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  know  what  to  do  with  it." 

"  Yes.     There  shall  be  no  delay." 

Feversham  wrapped  the  remaining  feathers  care- 
fully away  in  a  corner  of  his  ragged  jibbeh  and  tied 
them  safe. 


364  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 


<« 


We  shake  hands,  then,"  said  he ;  and  as  their 
hands  met  he  added,  "  To-morrow  morning  we  part 
company." 

"  Part  company,  you  and  I  —  after  the  year  in 
Omdurman,  the  weeks  of  flight  ?  "  exclaimed  Trench. 
"Why?  There's  no  more  to  be  done.  Castleton's 
dead.  You  keep  the  feather  which  he  sent,  but  he  is 
dead.  You  can  do  nothing  with  it.  You  must  come 
home." 

"Yes,"  answered  Feversham,  "but  after  you,  cer- 
tainly not  with  you.  You  go  on  to  Assouan  and 
Cairo.  At  each  place  you  will  find  friends  to  wel- 
come you.     I  shall  not  go  with  you." 

Trench  was  silent  for  a  while.  He  understood 
Feversham's  reluctance,  he  saw  that  it  would  be 
easier  for  Feversham  if  he  were  to  tell  his  story  first 
to  Ethne  Eustace,  and  without  Feversham's  presence. 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you  no  one  knows  .why  you  re- 
signed your  commission,  or  of  the  feathers  we  sent. 
We  never  spoke  of  it.  We  agreed  never  to  speak, 
for  the  honour  of  the  regiment.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
glad  I  am  that  we  all  agreed  and  kept  to  the  agree- 
ment," he  said. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  see  Durrance,"  said  Feversham  ; 
"  if  you  do,  give  him  a  message  from  me.  Tell  him 
that  the  next  time  he  asks  me  to  come  and  see  him, 
whether  it  is  in  England  or  Wadi  Haifa,  I  will  accept 
the  invitation." 

"  Which  way  will  you  go  ?  " 

"  To  Wadi  Haifa,"  said  Feversham,  pointing  west- 
wards over  his  shoulder.  "  I  shall  take  Abou  Fatma 
with  me  and  travel  slowly  and  quietly  down  the  Nile. 
The  other  Arab  will  guide  you  into  Assouan." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    SOUTHERN    CROSS     365 

They  slept  that  night  in  security  beside  the  well, 
and  the  next  morning  they  parted  company.  Trench 
was  the  first  to  ride  off,  and  as  his  camel  rose  to  its 
feet,  ready  for  the  start,  he  bent  down  towards  Fever- 
sham,  who  passed  him  the  nose  rein. 

"  Ramelton,  that  was  the  name  ?     I  shall  not  forget." 

"Yes,  Ramelton,"  said  Feversham ;  "there's  a 
ferry  across  Lough  Swilly  to  Rathmullen.  You 
must  drive  the  twelve  miles  to  Ramelton.  But  you 
may  not  find  her  there." 

"  If  not  there,  I  shall  find  her  somewhere  else. 
Make  no  mistake,  Feversham,  I  shall  find  her." 

And  Trench  rode  forward,  alone  with  his  Arab 
guide.  More  than  once  he  turned  his  head  and  saw 
Feversham  still  standing  by  the  well ;  more  than  once 
he  was  strongly  drawn  to  stop  and  ride  back  to  that 
solitary  figure,  but  he  contented  himself  with  waving 
his  hand,  and  even  that  salute  was  not  returned. 

Feversham,  indeed,  had  neither  thought  nor  eyes 
for  the  companion  of  his  flight.  His  six  years  of 
hard  probation  had  come  this  morning  to  an  end,  and 
yet  he  was  more  sensible  of  a  certain  loss  arid  vacancy 
than  of  any  joy.  For  six  years,  through  many  trials, 
through  many  falterings,  his  mission  had  strengthened 
and  sustained  him.  It  seemed  to  him  now  that  there 
was  nothing  more  wherewith  to  occupy  his  life. 
Ethne  ?  No  doubt  she  was  long  since  married  .  .  . 
and  there  came  upon  him  all  at  once  a  great  bitterness 
of  despair  for  that  futile,  unnecessary  mistake  made 
by  him  six  years  ago.  He  saw  again  the  room  in 
London  overlooking  the  quiet  trees  and  lawns  of  St. 
James's  Park,  he  heard  the  knock  upon  the  door,  he 
took  the  telegram  from  his  servant's  hand. 


3 66  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

He  roused  himself  finally  with  the  recollection  that, 
after  all,  the  work  was  not  quite  done.  There  was 
his  father,  who  just  at  this  moment  was  very  likely 
reading  his  Times  after  breakfast  upon  the  terrace 
of  Broad  Place  among  the  pine  trees  upon  the  Surrey 
hills.  He  must  visit  his  father,  he  must  take  that 
fourth  feather  back  to  Ramelton.  There  was  a  tele- 
gram, too,  which  must  be  sent  to  Lieutenant  Sutch 
at  Suakin. 

He  mounted  his  camel  and  rode  slowly  with  Abou 
Fatma  westwards  towards  Wadi  Haifa.  But  the 
sense  of  loss  did  not  pass  from  him  that  day,  nor 
his  anger  at  the  act  of  folly  which  had  brought  about 
his  downfall.  The  wooded  slopes  of  Ramelton  were 
very  visible  to  him  across  the  shimmer  of  the  desert 
air.  In  the  greatness  of  his  depression  Harry  Fever- 
sham  upon  this  day  for  the  first  time  doubted  his  faith 
in  the  "afterwards." 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

FEVERSHAM    RETURNS    TO    RAMELTON 

On  an  August  morning  of  the  same  year  Harry 
Feversham  rode  across  the  Lennon  bridge  into  Ram- 
elton.  The  fierce  suns  of  the  Soudan  had  tanned 
his  face,  the  years  of  his  probation  had  left  their 
marks ;  he  rode  up  the  narrow  street  of  the  town  un- 
recognised. At  the  top  of  the  hill  he  turned  into  the 
broad  highway  which,  descending  valleys  and  climb- 
ing hills,  runs  in  one  straight  line  to  Letterkenny. 
He  rode  rather  quickly  in  a  company  of  ghosts. 

The  intervening  years  had  gradually  been  drop- 
ping from  his  thoughts  all  through  his  journey  across 
Egypt  and  the  Continent.  They  were  no  more  than 
visionary  now.  Nor  was  he  occupied  with  any  dream 
of  the  things  which  might  have  been  but  for  his  great 
fault.  The  things  which  had  been,  here,  in  this  small 
town  of  Ireland,  were  too  definite.  Here  he  had 
been  most  happy,  here  he  had  known  the  uttermost 
of  his  misery ;  here  his  presence  had  brought  pleas- 
ure, here  too  he  had  done  his  worst  harm.  Once  he 
stopped  when  he  was  opposite  to  the  church,  set  high 
above  the  road  upon  his  right  hand,  and  wondered 
whether  Ethne  was  still  at  Ramelton  —  whether  old 
Dermod  was  alive,  and  what  kind  of  welcome  he 
would  receive.     But  he  waked  in  a  moment  to  the 

367 


3 68  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

knowledge  that  he  was  sitting  upon  his  horse  in  the 
empty  road  and  in  the  quiet  of  an  August  morning. 
There  were  larks  singing  in  the  pale  blue  above  his 
head ;  a  landrail  sent  up  its  harsh  cry  from  the 
meadow  on  the  left ;  the  crow  of  a  cock  rose  clear 
from  the  valley.  He  looked  about  him,  and  rode 
briskly  on  down  the  incline  in  front  of  him  and  up  the 
ascent  beyond.  He  rode  again  with  his  company  of 
ghosts  —  phantoms  of  people  with  whom  upon  this 
road  he  had  walked  and  ridden  and  laughed,  ghosts 
of  old  thoughts  and  recollected  words.  He  came  to 
a  thick  grove  of  trees,  a  broken  fence,  a  gateway  with 
no  gate.  Inattentive  to  these  evidences  of  desertion, 
he  turned  in  at  the  gate  and  rode  along  a  weedy  and 
neglected  drive.  At  the  end  of  it  he  came  to  an  open 
space  before  a  ruined  house.  The  aspect  of  the 
tumbling  walls  and  unroofed  rooms  roused  him  at 
last  completely  from  his  absorption.  He  dismounted, 
and,  tying  his  horse  to  the  branch  of  a  tree,  ran 
quickly  into  the  house  and  called  aloud.  No  voice 
answered  him.  He  ran  from  deserted  room  to  de- 
serted room.  He  descended  into  the  garden,  but  no 
one  came  to  meet  him  ;  and  he  understood  now  from 
the  uncut  grass  upon  the  lawn,  the  tangled  disorder 
of  the  flowerbeds,  that  no  one  would  come.  He 
mounted  his  horse  again,  and  rode  back  at  a  sharp 
trot.  In  Ramelton  he  stopped  at  the  inn,  gave  his 
horse  to  the  ostler,  and  ordered  lunch  for  himself. 
He  said  to  the  landlady  who  waited  upon  him :  — 

"  So    Lennon    House    has    been    burned    down  ? 
When  was  that? " 

"  Five  years  ago,"  the  landlady  returned,  "just  five 
years  ago  this  summer."     And  she  proceeded,  with- 


FEVERSHAM  RETURNS    TO   RAMELTON     369 

out  further  invitation,  to  give  a  voluminous  account 
of  the  conflagration  and  the  cause  of  it,  the  ruin  of 
the  Eustace  family,  the  inebriety  of  Bastable,  and  the 
death  of  Dermod  Eustace  at  Glenalla.  "  But  we 
hope  to  see  the  house  rebuilt.  It's  likely  to  be,  we 
hear,  when  Miss  Eustace  is  married,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  which  suggested  that  she  was  full  of  inter- 
esting information  upon  the  subject  of  Miss  Eustace's 
marriage.  Her  guest,  however,  did  not  respond  to 
the  invitation. 

"  And  where  does  Miss  Eustace  live  now  ?  " 

"At  Glenalla,"  she  replied.  "  Halfway  on  the  road 
to  Rathmullen  there's  a  track  leads  up  to  your  left. 
It's  a  poor  mountain  village  is  Glenalla,  and  no  place 
for  Miss  Eustace,  at  all,  at  all.  Perhaps  you  will  be 
wanting  to  see  her  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  order  my  horse 
to  be  brought  round  to  the  door,"  said  the  man ;  and 
he  rose  from  the  table  to  put  an  end  to  the  interview. 

The  landlady,  however,  was  not  so  easily  dismissed. 
She  stood  at  the  door  and  remarked  :  — 

"  Well,  that's  curious  —  that's  most  curious.  For 
only  a  fortnight  ago  a  gentleman  burnt  just  as  black 
as  yourself  stayed  a  night  here  on  the  same  errand. 
He  asked  for  Miss  Eustace's  address  and  drove  up  to 
Glenalla.     Perhaps  you  have  business  with  her  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have  business  with  Miss  Eustace,"  the 
stranger  returned.  "  Will  you  be  good  enough  to 
give  orders  about  my  horse? " 

While  he  was  waiting  for  his  horse  he  looked 
through  the  leaves  of  the  hotel  book,  and  saw  under 
a  date  towards  the  end  of  July  the  name  of  Colonel 
Trench. 

2  B 


37° 


THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 


"  You  will  come  back,  sir,  to-night  ? "  said  the 
landlady,  as  he  mounted. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  do  not  think  I  shall  come 
again  to  Ramelton."  And  he  rode  down  the  hill, 
and  once  more  that  day  crossed  the  Lennon  bridge. 
Four  miles  on  he  came  to  the  track  opposite  a  little 
bay  of  the  Lough,  and,  turning  into  it,  he  rode  past  a 
few  white  cottages  up  to  the  purple  hollow  of  the 
hills.  It  was  about  five  o'clock  when  he  came  to  the 
long,  straggling  village.  It  seemed  very  quiet  and 
deserted,  and  built  without  any  plan.  A  few  cot- 
tages stood  together,  then  came  a  gap  of  fields, 
beyond  that  a  small  plantation  of  larches  and  a  house 
which  stood  by  itself.  Beyond  the  house  was  an- 
other gap,  through  which  he  could  see  straight  down 
to  the  water  of  the  Lough,  shining  in  the  afternoon 
sun,  and  the  white  gulls  poising  and  swooping  above 
it.  And  after  passing  that  gap  he  came  to  a  small 
grey  church,  standing  bare  to  the  winds  upon  its  tiny 
plateau.  A  pathway  of  white  shell-dust  led  from  the 
door  of  the  church  to  the  little  wooden  gate.  As  he 
came  level  with  the  gate  a  collie  dog  barked  at  him 
from  behind  it. 

The  rider  looked  at  the  dog,  which  was  very 
grey  about  the  muzzle.  He  noticed  its  marking,  and 
stopped  his  horse  altogether.  He  glanced  towards 
the  church,  and  saw  that  the  door  stood  open.  At 
once  he  dismounted  ;  he  fastened  his  horse  to  the 
fence,  and  entered  the  churchyard.  The  collie  thrust 
its  muzzle  into  the  back  of  his  knee,  sniffed  once  or 
twice  doubtfully,  and  suddenly  broke  into  an  exuber- 
ant welcome.  The  collie  dog  had  a  better  memory 
than  the  landlady  of  the  inn.     He  barked,  wagged 


FEVERSHAM  RETURNS    TO   RAM  ELTON     371 

his  tail,  crouched  and  sprang  at  the  stranger's  shoul- 
ders, whirled  round  and  round  in  front  of  him,  burst 
into  sharp,  excited  screams  of  pleasure,  ran  up  to  the 
church  door  and  barked  furiously  there,  then  ran 
back  and  jumped  again  upon  his  friend.  The  man 
caught  the  dog  as  it  stood  up  with  its  forepaws 
upon  his  chest,  patted  it,  and  laughed.  Suddenly  he 
ceased  laughing,  and  stood  stock-still  with  his  eyes 
towards  the  open  door  of  the  church.  In  the  door- 
way Ethne  Eustace  was  standing.  He  put  the  dog 
down  and  slowly  walked  up  the  path  towards  her. 
She  waited  on  the  threshold  without  moving,  without 
speaking.  She  waited,  watching  him,  until  he  came 
close  to  her.     Then  she  said  simply  :  — 

"  Harry." 

She  was  silent  after  that ;  nor  did  he  speak.  All 
the  ghosts  and  phantoms  of  old  thoughts  in  whose 
company  he  had  travelled  the  whole  of  that  day 
vanished  away  from  his  mind  at  her  simple  utterance 
of  his  name.  Six  years  had  passed  since  his  feet 
crushed  the  gravel  on  the  dawn  of  a  June  morn- 
ing beneath  her  window.  And  they  looked  at  one 
another,  remarking  the  changes  which  those  six 
years  had  brought.  And  the  changes,  unnoticed  and 
almost  imperceptible  to  those  who  had  lived  daily  in 
their  company,  sprang  very  distinct  to  the  eyes  of 
these  two.  Feversham  was  thin,  his  face  was  wasted. 
The  strain  of  life  in  the  House  of  Stone  had  left  its 
signs  about  his  sunken  eyes  and  in  the  look  of  age 
beyond  his  years.  But  these  were  not  the  only 
changes,  as  Ethne  noticed  ;  they  were  not,  indeed,  the 
most  important  ones.  Her  heart,  although  she  stood 
so  still  and  silent,  went  out  to  him  in  grief  for  the 


372  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

great  troubles  which  he  had  endured  ;  but  she  saw, 
too,  that  he  came  back  without  a  thought  of  anger 
towards  her  for  that  fourth  feather  snapped  from  her 
fan.  But  she  was  clear-eyed  even  at  this  moment. 
She  saw  much  more.  She  understood  that  the  man 
who  stood  quietly  before  her  now  was  not  the  same 
man  whom  she  had  last  seen  in  the  hall  of  Ramelton. 
There  had  been  a  timidity  in  his  manner  in  those 
days,  a  peculiar  diffidence,  a  continual  expectation  of 
other  men's  contempt,  which  had  gone  from  him. 
He  was  now  quietly  self-possessed  ;  not  arrogant ; 
on  the  other  hand,  not  diffident.  He  had  put  him- 
self to  a  long,  hard  test ;  and  he  knew  that  he  had 
not  failed.  All  that  she  saw  ;  and  her  face  lightened 
as  she  said  :  — 

"  It  is  not  all  harm  which  has  come  of  these  years. 
They  were  not  wasted." 

But  Feversham  thought  of  her  lonely  years  in  this 
village  of  Glenalla  —  and  thought  with  a  man's 
thought,  unaware  that  nowhere  else  would  she  have 
chosen  to  live.  He  looked  into  her  face,  and  saw  the 
marks  of  the  years  upon  it.  It  was  not  that  she  had 
aged  so  much.  Her  big  grey  eyes  shone  as  clearly 
as  before,  the  colour  was  still  as  bright  upon  her 
cheeks.  But  there  was  more  of  character.  She  had 
suffered  ;  she  had  eaten  of  the  tree  of  knowledge. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "  I  did  you  a  great  wrong 
six  years  ago,  and  I  need  not." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  Will  you  give  it  me,  please  ?  " 

And  for  a  moment  he  did  not  understand. 

"  That  fourth  feather,"  she  said. 

He  drew  his  letter-case  from  his  coat,  and  shook 


FEFERSHAM  RETURNS   TO   RAMELTQN     373 

two  feathers  out  into  the  palm  of  his  hand.  The 
larger  one,  the  ostrich  feather,  he  held  out  to  her. 
But  she  said  :  — 

"Both." 

There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  keep  Castle- 
ton's  feather  any  longer.  He  handed  them  both  to 
her,  since  she  asked  for  them,  and  she  clasped  them, 
and  with  a  smile  treasured  them  against  her  breast. 

"  I  have  the  four  feathers  now,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  answered  Feversham ;  "all  four.  What 
will  you  do  with  them  ? " 

Ethne's  smile  became  a  laugh. 

"  Do  with  them  !  "  she  cried  in  scorn.  "  I  shall  do 
nothing  with  them.  I  shall  keep  them.  I  am  very 
proud  to  have  them  to  keep." 

She  kept  them,  as  she  had  once  kept  Harry  Fever- 
sham's  portrait.  There  was  something  perhaps  in 
Durrance's  contention  that  women  so  much  more 
than  men  gather  up  their  experiences  and  live  upon 
them,  looking  backwards.  Feversham,  at  all  events, 
would  now  have  dropped  the  feathers  then  and  there 
and  crushed  them  into  the  dust  of  the  path  with  his 
heel ;  they  had  done  their  work.  They  could  no 
longer  reproach,  they  were  no  longer  needed  to 
encourage,  they  were  dead  things.  Ethne,  however, 
held  them  tight  in  her  hand ;  to  her  they  were  not 
dead. 

"  Colonel  Trench  was  here  a  fortnight  ago,"  she 
said.  "  He  told  me  you  were  bringing  it  back  to 
me." 

"  But  he  did  not  know  of  the  fourth  feather,"  said 
Feversham.     "  I  never  told  any  man  that  I  had  it." 
Yes.    You  told  Colonel  Trench  on  your  first  night 


«< 


374  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

in  the  House  of  Stone  at  Omdurman.  He  told  me. 
I  no  longer  hate  him,"  she  added,  but  without  a  smile 
and  quite  seriously,  as  though  it  was  an  important 
statement  which  needed  careful  recognition. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Feversham.  "  He  is  a 
great  friend  of  mine." 

Ethne  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  she 
said  :  — 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  have  forgotten  our  drive 
from  Ramelton  to  our  house  when  I  came  to  fetch 
you  from  the  quay  ?  We  were  alone  in  the  dog-cart, 
and  we  spoke  —  " 

"  Of  the  friends  whom  one  knows  for  friends  the 
first  moment,  and  whom  one  seems  to  recognise  even 
though  one  has  never  seen  them  before,"  interrupted 
Feversham.     "  Indeed  I  remember." 

"  And  whom  one  never  loses  whether  absent 
or  dead,"  continued  Ethne.  "  I  said  that  one 
could  always  be  sure  of  such  friends,  and  you 
answered  —  " 

"  I  answered  that  one  could  make  mistakes,"  again 
Feversham  interrupted. 

"  Yes,  and  I  disagreed.  I  said  that  one  might 
seem  to  make  mistakes,  and  perhaps  think  so  for  a 
long  while,  but  that  in  the  end  one  would  be  proved 
not  to  have  made  them.  I  have  often  thought  of 
those  words.  I  remembered  them  very  clearly  when 
Captain  Willoughby  brought  to  me  the  first  feather, 
and  with  a  great  deal  of  remorse.  I  remember  them 
again  very  clearly  to-day,  although  I  have  no  room 
in  my  thoughts  for  remorse.  I  was  right,  you  see, 
and  I  should  have  clung  firmly  to  my  faith.  But  I 
did  not."     Her  voice  shook  a  little,  and  pleaded  as 


FEVERSHAM  RETURNS   TO   RAMELTON     375 

she  went  on :  "I  was  young.  I  knew  very  little. 
I  was  unaware  how  little.  I  judged  hastily ;  but 
to-day  I  understand." 

She  opened  her  hand  and  gazed  for  a  while  at  the 
white  feathers.  Then  she  turned  and  went  inside 
the  church.     Feversham  followed  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IN    THE    CHURCH    AT    GLENALLA 

Ethne  sat  down  in  the  corner  of  a  pew  next  to  the 
aisle,  and  Feversham  took  his  stand  beside  her.  It 
was  very  quiet  and  peaceful  within  that  tiny  church. 
The  afternoon  sun  shone  through  the  upper  windows 
and  made  a  golden  haze  about  the  roof.  The  natural 
murmurs  of  the  summer  floated  pleasantly  through 
the  open  door. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  remembered  our  drive  and 
what  we  said,"  she  continued.  "  It  is  rather  impor- 
tant to  me  that  you  should  remember.  Because, 
although  I  have  got  you  back,  I  am  going  to  send 
you  away  from  me  again.  You  will  be  one  of  the 
absent  friends  whom  I  shall  not  lose  because  you  are 
absent." 

She  spoke  slowly,  looking  straight  in  front  of  her 
without  faltering.  It  was  a  difficult  speech  for  her 
to  deliver,  but  she  had  thought  over  it  night  and  day 
during  this  last  fortnight,  and  the  words  were  ready 
to  her  lips.  At  the  first  sight  of  Harry  Feversham, 
recovered  to  her  after  so  many  years,  so  much 
suspense,  so  much  suffering,  it  had  seemed  to  her 
that  she  never  would  be  able  to  speak  them,  however 
necessary  it  was  that  they  should  be  spoken.  But 
as  they  stood  over  against  one  another  she  had  forced 

376 


IN   THE    CHURCH  AT  GLEN  ALL  A         377 

herself  to  remember  that  necessity  until  she  actually- 
recognised  and  felt  it.  Then  she  had  gone  back  into 
the  church  and  taken  a  seat,  and  gathered  up  her 
strength. 

It  would  be  easier  for  both  of  them,  she  thought, 
if  she  should  give  no  sign  of  what  so  quick  a  separa- 
tion cost  her.  He  would  know  surely  enough,  and 
she  wished  him  to  know  ;  she  wished  him  to  under- 
stand that  not  one  moment  of  his  six  years,  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned,  had  been  spent  in  vain.  But 
that  could  be  understood  without  the  signs  of  emo- 
tion. So  she  spoke  her  speech  looking  steadily 
straight  forward  and  speaking  in  an  even  voice. 

"  I  know  that  you  will  mind  very  much,  just  as  I  do. 
But  there  is  no  help  for  it,"  she  resumed.  "At  all 
events  you  are  at  home  again,  with  the  right  to  be  at 
home.  It  is  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  know  that. 
But  there  are  other,  much  greater  reasons  from  which 
we  can  both  take  comfort.  Colonel  Trench  told  me 
enough  of  your  captivity  to  convince  me  that  we  both 
see  with  the  same  eyes.  We  both  understand  that 
this  second  parting,  hard  as  it  is,  is  still  a  very  slight, 
small  thing  compared  with  the  other,  our  first  parting 
over  at  the  house  six  years  ago.  I  felt  very  lonely 
after  that,  as  I  shall  not  feel  lonely  now.  There  was 
a  great  barrier  between  us  then  separating  us  for- 
ever. We  should  never  have  met  again  here  or 
afterwards.  I  am  quite  sure  of  that.  But  you  have 
broken  the  barrier  down  by  all  your  pain  and  bravery 
during  these  last  years.  I  am  no  less  sure  of  that. 
I  am  absolutely  confident  about  it,  and  I  believe  you 
are  too.  So  that  although  we  shall  not  see  one 
another  here  and  as  long  as  we  live,  the  afterwards 


378  THE  FOUR    FEATHERS 

is  quite  sure  for  us  both.  And  we  can  wait  for  that. 
You  can.  You  have  waited  with  so  much  strength 
all  these  years  since  we  parted.  And  I  can  too,  for 
I  get  strength  from  your  victory." 

She  stopped,  and  for  a  while  there  was  silence  in 
that  church.  To  Feversham  her  words  were  gracious 
as  rain  upon  dry  land.  To  hear  her  speak  them  up- 
lifted him  so  that  those  six  years  of  trial,  of  slinking 
into  corners  out  of  the  sight  of  his  fellows,  of  lonely 
endurance,  of  many  heart-sinkings  and  much  bodily 
pain,  dwindled  away  into  insignificance.  They  had  in- 
deed borne  their  fruit  to  him.  For  Ethne  had  spoken 
in  a  gentle  voice  just  what  his  ears  had  so  often  longed 
to  hear  as  he  lay  awake  at  night  in  the  bazaar  at 
Suakin,  in  the  Nile  villages,  in  the  dim  wide  spaces  of 
the  desert,  and  what  he  had  hardly  dared  to  hope  she 
ever  would  speak.  He  stood  quite  silently  by  her 
side,  still  hearing  her  voice  though  the  voice  had 
ceased.  Long  ago  there  were  certain  bitter  words 
which  she  had  spoken,  and  he  had  told  Sutch,  so 
closely  had  they  clung  and  stung,  that  he  believed  in 
his  dying  moments  he  would  hear  them  again  and  so 
go  to  his  grave  with  her  reproaches  ringing  in  his 
ears.  He  remembered  that  prediction  of  his  now 
and  knew  that  it  was  false.  The  words  he  would 
hear  would  be  those  which  she  had  just  uttered. 

For  Ethne's  proposal  that  they  should  separate  he 
was  not  unprepared.  He  had  heard  already  that  she 
was  engaged,  and  he  did  not  argue  against  her  wish. 
But  he  understood  that  she  had  more  to  say  to  him. 
And  she  had.  But  she  was  slow  to  speak  it.  This 
was  the  last  time  she  was  to  see  Harry  Feversham ; 
she  meant  resolutely  to  send  him  away.     When  once 


IN   THE    CHURCH  AT  GLEN  ALL  A         379 

he  had  passed  through  that  church  door,  through 
which  the  sunlight  and  the  summer  murmurs  came, 
and  his  shadow  gone  from  the  threshold,  she  would 
never  talk  with  him  or  set  her  eyes  on  him  until  her 
life  was  ended.  So  she  deferred  the  moment  of  his 
going  by  silences  and  slow  speech.  It  might  be  so 
very  long  before  that  end  came.  She  had,  she 
thought,  the  right  to  protract  this  one  interview. 
She  rather  hoped  that  he  would  speak  of  his  travels, 
his  dangers ;  she  was  prepared  to  discuss  at  length 
with  him  even  the  politics  of  the  Soudan.  But  he 
waited  for  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married,"  she  said  at  length, 
"  and  immediately.  I  am  to  marry  a  friend  of  yours, 
Colonel  Durrance." 

There  was  hardly  a  pause  before  Feversham  an- 
swered :  — 

"  He  has  cared  for  you  a  long  while.  I  was  not 
aware  of  it  until  I  went  away,  but,  thinking  over  every- 
thing, I  thought  it  likely,  and  in  a  very  little  time  I 
became  sure." 

"  He  is  blind." 

"  Blind !  "  exclaimed  Feversham.  "  He,  of  all  men, 
blind ! " 

"  Exactly,"  said  Ethne.  "  He  —  of  all  men.  His 
blindness  explains  everything  —  why  I  marry  him, 
why  I  send  you  away.  It  was  after  he  went  blind 
that  I  became  engaged  to  him.  It  was  before  Cap- 
tain Willoughby  came  to  me  with  the  first  feather. 
It  was  between  those  two  events.  You  see,  after  you 
went  away  one  thought  over  things  rather  carefully. 
I  used  to  lie  awake  and  think,  and  I  resolved  that  two 
men's  lives  should  not  be  spoilt  because  of  me." 


380  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  Mine  was  not,"  Feversham  interrupted.  "  Please 
believe  that." 

"  Partly  it  was,"  she  returned,  "  I  know  very  well. 
You  would  not  own  it  for  my  sake,  but  it  was.  I  was 
determined  that  a  second  should  not  be.  And  so 
when  Colonel  Durrance  went  blind  —  you  know  the 
man  he  was,  you  can  understand  what  blindness 
meant  to  him,  the  loss  of  everything  he  cared 
for  —  " 

"  Except  you." 

"Yes,"  Ethne  answered  quietly,  "except  me.  So 
I  became  engaged  to  him.  But  he  has  grown  very 
quick — you  cannot  guess  how  quick.  And  he  sees 
so  very  clearly.  A  hint  tells  him  the  whole  hidden 
truth.  At  present  he  knows  nothing  of  the  four 
feathers." 

"Are  you  sure?"  suddenly  exclaimed  Feversham. 

"  Yes.  Why  ?  "  asked  Ethne,  turning  her  face  to- 
wards him  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  sat  down. 

"Lieutenant  Sutch  was  at  Suakin  while  I  was  at 
Omdurman.  He  knew  that  I  was  a  prisoner  there. 
He  sent  messages  to  me,  he  tried  to  organise  my 
escape." 

Ethne  was  startled. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  Colonel  Durrance  certainly  knew 
that  you  were  in  Omdurman.  He  saw  you  in  Wadi 
Haifa,  and  he  heard  that  you  had  gone  south  into  the 
desert.  He  was  distressed  about  it;  he  asked  a  friend 
to  get  news  of  you,  and  the  friend  got  news  that  you 
were  in  Omdurman.  He  told  me  so  himself,  and  — 
yes,  he  told  me  that  he  would  try  to  arrange  for  your 
escape.  No  doubt  he  has  done  that  through  Lieu- 
tenant Sutch.     He  has  been  at  Wiesbaden  with  an 


IN   THE    CHURCH  AT   GLEN  ALIA         381 

oculist ;  he  only  returned  a  week  ago.  Otherwise 
he  would  have  told  me  about  it.  Very  likely  he  was 
the  reason  why  Lieutenant  Sutch  was  at  Suakin,  but 
he  knows  nothing  of  the  four  feathers.  He  only  knows 
that  our  engagement  was  abruptly  broken  off ;  he 
believes  that  I  have  no  longer  any  thought  of  you  at 
all.  But  if  you  come  back,  if  you  and  I  saw  anything 
of  each  other,  however  calmly  we  met,  however  indif- 
ferently we  spoke,  he  would  guess.  He  is  so  quick 
he  would  be  sure  to  guess."  She  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  added  in  a  whisper,  "  And  he  would  guess 
right." 

Feversham  saw  the  blood  flush  her  forehead  and 
deepen  the  colour  of  her  cheeks.  He  did  not  move 
from  his  position,  he  did  not  bend  towards  her,  or 
even  in  voice  give  any  sign  which  would  make  this 
leave-taking  yet  more  difficult  to  carry  through. 

"Yes,  I  see,"  he  said.     "And  he  must  not  guess." 

"  No,  he  must  not,"  returned  Ethne.  "  I  am  so 
glad  you  see  that  too.  Harry.  The  straight  and  simple 
thing  is  the  only  thing  for  us  to  do.  He  must  never 
guess,  for,  as  you  said,  he  has  nothing  left  but  me." 

"  Is  Durrance  here  ? "  asked  Feversham. 

"  He  is  staying  at  the  vicarage." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said.  "  It  is  only  fair  that  I  should 
tell  you  I  had  no  thought  that  you  would  wait.  I  had 
no  wish  that  you  should ;  I  had  no  right  to  such  a 
wish.  When  you  gave  me  that  fourth  feather  in  the 
little  room  at  Ramelton,  with  the  music  coming  faintly 
through  the  door,  I  understood  your  meaning.  There 
was  to  be  a  complete,  an  irrevocable  end.  We  were 
not  to  be  the  merest  acquaintances.  So  I  said  nothing 
to  you  of  the  plan  which  came  clear  and  definite  into 


3 8 z  THE    FOUR    FEATHER S 

my  mind  at  the  very  time  when  you  gave  me  the 
feathers.  You  see,  I  might  never  have  succeeded. 
I  might  have  died  trying  to  succeed.  I  might  even 
perhaps  have  shirked  the  attempt.  It  would  be  time 
enough  for  me  to  speak  if  I  came  back.  So  I  never 
formed  any  wish  that  you  should  wait." 

"That  was  what  Colonel  Trench  told  me." 

"  I  told  him  that  too  ?  " 

"On  your  first  night  in  the  House  of  Stone." 

"Well,  it's  just  the  truth.  The  most  I  hoped  for — 
and  I  did  hope  for  that  every  hour  of  every  day  — 
was  that,  if  I  did  come  home,  you  would  take  back 
your  feather,  and  that  we  might  —  not  renew  our 
friendship  here,  but  see  something  of  one  another 
afterwards." 

"Yes,"  said  Ethne.    "Then  there  will  be  no  parting." 

Ethne  spoke  very  simply,  without  even  a  sigh,  but 
she  looked  at  Harry  Feversham  as  she  spoke  and 
smiled.  The  look  and  the  smile  told  him  what  the 
cost  of  the  separation  would  be  to  her.  And,  under- 
standing what  it  meant  now,  he  understood,  with  an 
infinitely  greater  completeness  than  he  had  ever 
reached  in  his  lonely  communings,  what  it  must  have 
meant  six  years  ago  when  she  was  left  with  her  pride 
stricken  as  sorely  as  her  heart. 

"  What  trouble  you  must  have  gone  through  !  "  he 
cried,  and  she  turned  and  looked  him  over. 

"  Not  I  alone,"  she  said  gently.  "  I  passed  no 
nights  in  the  House  of  Stone." 

"  But  it  was  my  fault.  Do  you  remember  what  you 
said  when  the  morning  came  through  the  blinds  ? 
'  It's  not  right  that  one  should  suffer  so  much  pain.' 
It  was  not  right." 


IN  THE    CHURCH  AT  GLEN  ALIA         383 

"  I  had  forgotten  the  words  —  oh,  a  long  time  since 
—  until  Colonel  Trench  reminded  me.  I  should  never 
have  spoken  them.  When  I  did  I  was  not  thinking 
they  would  live  so  in  your  thoughts.  I  am  sorry  that 
I  spoke  them." 

"  Oh,  they  were  just  enough.  I  never  blamed  you 
for  them,"  said  Feversham,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  used 
to  think  that  they  would  be  the  last  words  I  should 
hear  when  I  turned  my  face  to  the  wall.  But  you 
have  given  me  others  to-day  wherewith  to  replace 
them." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  quietly. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  Feversham 
wondered  why  Ethne  did  not  rise  from  her  seat  in  the 
pew.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  talk  of  his  travels  or 
adventures.  The  occasion  seemed  too  serious,  too  vital. 
They  were  together  to  decide  the  most  solemn  issue 
in  their  lives.  Once  the  decision  was  made,  as  now  it 
had  been  made,  he  felt  that  they  could  hardly  talk  on 
other  topics.  Ethne,  however,  still  kept  him  at  her 
side.  Though  she  sat  so  calmly  and  still,  though  her 
face  was  quiet  in  its  look  of  gravity,  her  heart  ached 
with  longing.  Just  for  a  little  longer,  she  pleaded  to 
herself.  The  sunlight  was  withdrawing  from  the  walls 
of  the  church.  She  measured  out  a  space  upon  the 
walls  where  it  still  glowed  bright.  When  all  that 
space  was  cold  grey  stone,  she  would  send  Harry 
Feversham  away. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  escaped  from  Omdurman  with- 
out the  help  of  Lieutenant  Sutch  or  Colonel  Durrance. 
I  wanted  so  much  that  everything  should  be  done  by 
you  alone  without  anybody's  help  or  interference," 
she  said,  and  after  she  had  spoken  there  followed  a 


384  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

silence.  Once  or  twice  she  looked  towards  the  wall, 
and  each  time  she  saw  the  space  of  golden  light  nar- 
rowed, and  knew  that  her  minutes  were  running  out. 
"You  suffered  horribly  at  Dongola,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice.     "Colonel  Trench  told  me." 

"  What  does  it  matter  now  ?  "  Feversham  answered. 
"That  time  seems  rather  far  away  to  me." 

"  Had  you  anything  of  mine  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  had  your  white  feather." 

"  But  anything  else  ?  Any  little  thing  which  I  had 
given  you  in  the  other  days  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  I  had  your  photograph,"  she  said.     "  I  kept  it." 

Feversham  suddenly  leaned  down  towards  her. 

"You  did!" 

Ethne  nodded  her  head. 

"Yes.  The  moment  I  went  upstairs  that  night  I 
packed  up  your  presents  and  addressed  them  to  your 
rooms." 

"  Yes,  I  got  them  in  London." 

"  But  I  put  your  photograph  aside  first  of  all  to 
keep.  I  burnt  all  your  letters  after  I  had  addressed 
the  parcel  and  taken  it  down  to  the  hall  to  be  sent 
away.  I  had  just  finished  burning  your  letters  when 
I  heard  your  step  upon  the  gravel  in  the  early  morn- 
ing underneath  my  windows.  But  I  had  already  put 
your  photograph  aside.  I  have  it  now.  I  shall  keep 
it  and  the  feathers  together."  She  added  after  a 
moment :  — 

"  I  rather  wish  that  you  had  had  something  of  mine 
with  you  all  the  time." 

"I  had  no  right  to  anything,"  said  Feversham. 

There  was  st'll  a  narrow  slip  of  gold  upon  the  grey 
space  of  stone. 


IN   THE    CHURCH  AT  GLEN  ALL  A         385 

"  What  will  you  do  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  shall  go  home  first  and  see  my  father.  It  will 
depend  upon  the  way  we  meet." 

"You  will  let  Colonel  Durrance  know.  I  would 
like  to  hear  about  it." 

"  Yes,  I  will  write  to  Durrance." 

The  slip  of  gold  was  gone,  the  clear  light  of  a 
summer  evening  filled  the  church,  a  light  without  radi- 
ance or  any  colour. 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  for  a  long  while,"  said  Ethne, 
and  for  the  first  time  her  voice  broke  in  a  sob.  "  I 
shall  not  have  a  letter  from  you  again." 

She  leaned  a  little  forward  and  bent  her  head,  for 
the  tears  had  gathered  in  her  eyes.  But  she  rose 
up  bravely  from  her  seat,  and  together  they  went  out 
of  the  church  side  by  side.  She  leaned  towards  him 
as  they  walked  so  that  they  touched. 

Feversham  untied  his  horse  and  mounted  it.  As 
his  foot  touched  the  stirrup  Ethne  caught  her  dog 
close  to  her. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said.  She  did  not  now  even  try  to 
smile,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  took  it  and 
bent  down  from  his  saddle  close  to  her.  She  kept 
her  eyes  steadily  upon  him  though  the  tears  brimmed 
in  them. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.  He  held  her  hand  just  for  a 
little  while,  and  then  releasing  it,  rode  down  the  hill. 
He  rode  for  a  hundred  yards,  stopped  and  looked 
back.  Ethne  had  stopped,  too,  and  with  this  space 
between  them  and  their  faces  towards  one  another 
they  remained.  Ethne  made  no  sign  of  recognition  or 
farewell.  She  just  stood  and  looked.  Then  she 
turned  away  and  went  up  the  village  street  towards 

2C 


3 86  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

her  house  alone  and  very  slowly.  Feversham  watched 
her  till  she  went  in  at  the  gate,  but  she  became  dim 
and  blurred  to  his  vision  before  even  she  had  reached 
it.  He  was  able  to  see,  however,  that  she  did  not 
look  back  again. 

He  rode  down  the  hill.  The  bad  thing  which  he 
had  done  so  long  ago  was  not  even  by  his  six  years 
of  labour  to  be  destroyed.  It  was  still  to  live,  its  con- 
sequence was  to  be  sorrow  till  the  end  of  life  for 
another  than  himself.  That  she  took  the  sorrow 
bravely  and  without  complaint,  doing  the  straight  and 
simple  thing  as  her  loyal  nature  bade  her,  did  not 
diminish  Harry  Feversham's  remorse.  On  the  con- 
trary it  taught  him  yet  more  clearly  that  she  least  of 
all  deserved  unhappiness.  The  harm  was  irreparable. 
Other  women  might  have  forgotten,  but  not  she. 
For  Ethne  was  of  those  who  neither  lightly  feel  nor 
lightly  forget,  and  if  they  love  cannot  love  with  half 
a  heart.  She  would  be  alone  now,  he  knew,  in  spite 
of  her  marriage,  alone  up  to  the  very  end  and  at  the 
actual  moment  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

ETHNE  AGAIN  PLAYS  THE  MUSOLINE  OVERTURE 

The  incredible  words  were  spoken  that  evening. 
Ethne  went  into  her  farm-house  and  sat  down  in  the 
parlour.  She  felt  cold  that  summer  evening  and  had 
the  fire  lighted.  She  sat  gazing  into  the  bright  coals 
with  that  stillness  of  attitude  which  was  a  sure  sign 
with  her  of  tense  emotion.  The  moment  so  eagerly 
looked  for  had  come,  and  it  was  over.  She  was  alone 
now  in  her  remote  little  village,  out  of  the  world  in 
the  hills,  and  more  alone  than  she  had  been  since 
Willoughby  sailed  on  that  August  morning  down  the 
Salcombe  estuary.  From  the  time  of  Willoughby's 
coming  she  had  looked  forward  night  and  day  to  the 
one  half-hour  during  which  Harry  Feversham  would 
be  with  her.  The  half-hour  had  come  and  passed. 
She  knew  now  how  she  had  counted  upon  its  coming, 
how  she  had  lived  for  it.  She  felt  lonely  in  a  rather 
empty  world.  But  it  was  part  of  her  nature  that  she 
had  foreseen  this  sense  of  loneliness ;  she  had  known 
that  there  would  be  a  bad  hour  for  her  after  she  had 
sent  Harry  Feversham  away,  that  all  her  heart  and 
soul  would  clamour  to  her  to  call  him  back.  And 
she  forced  herself,  as  she  sat  shivering  by  the  fire,  to 
remember  that  she  had  always  foreseen  and  had  al- 
ways looked  beyond  it.     To-morrow  she  would  know 

387 


388  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

again  that  they  had  not  parted  forever,  to-morrow 
she  would  compare  the  parting  of  to-day  with  the 
parting  on  the  night  of  the  ball  at  Lennon  House, 
and  recognise  what  a  small  thing  this  was  to  that. 
She  fell  to  wondering  what  Harry  Feversham  would 
do  now  that  he  had  returned,  and  while  she  was 
building  up  for  him  a  future  of  great  distinction  she 
felt  Dermod's  old  collie  dog  nuzzling  at  her  hand 
with  his  sure  instinct  that  his  mistress  was  in  distress. 
Ethne  rose  from  her  chair  and  took  the  dog's  head 
between  her  hands  and  kissed  it.  He  was  very  old, 
she  thought ;  he  would  die  soon  and  leave  her,  and 
then  there  would  be  years  and  years,  perhaps,  before 
she  lay  down  in  her  bed  and  knew  the  great  moment 
was  at  hand. 

There  came  a  knock  upon  the  door,  and  a  servant 
told  her  that  Colonel  Durrance  was  waiting. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  as  he  entered  the  room  she 
went  forward  to  meet  him.  She  did  not  shirk  the 
part  which  she  had  allotted  to  herself.  She  stepped 
out  from  the  secret  chamber  of  her  grief  as  soon  as 
she  was  summoned. 

She  talked  with  her  visitor  as  though  no  unusual 
thing  had  happened  an  hour  before,  she  even  talked 
of  their  marriage  and  the  rebuilding  of  Lennon  House. 
It  was  difficult,  but  she  had  grown  used  to  difficulties. 
Only  that  night  Durrance  made  her  path  a  little 
harder  to  tread.  He  asked  her,  after  the  maid  had 
brought  in  the  tea,  to  play  to  him  the  Musoline  Over- 
ture upon  her  violin. 

"  Not  to-night,"  said  Ethne.  "  I  am  rather  tired." 
And  she  had  hardly  spoken  before  she  changed  her 
mind.     Ethne  was  determined  that  in  the  small  things 


AGAIN   THE    M US O LINE    OVERTURE       389 

as  well  as  in  the  great  she  must  not  shirk.  The 
small  things  with  their  daily  happenings  were  just 
those  about  which  she  must  be  most  careful.  "Still 
I  think  that  I  can  play  the  overture,"  she  said  with 
a  smile,  and  she  took  down  her  violin.  She  played 
the  overture  through  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 
Durrance  stood  at  the  window  with  his  back  towards 
her  until  she  had  ended.  Then  he  walked  to  her 
side. 

"  I  was  rather  a  brute,"  he  said  quietly,  "  to  ask 
you  to  play  that  overture  to-night." 

"  I  wasn't  anxious  to  play,"  she  answered  as  she 
laid  the  violin  aside. 

"  I  know.  But  I  was  anxious  to  find  out  something, 
and  I  knew  no  other  way  of  finding  it  out." 

Ethne  turned  up  to  him  a  startled  face. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  she  asked  in  a  voice  of 
suspense. 

"  You  are  so  seldom  off  your  guard.  Only  indeed 
at  rare  times  when  you  play.  Once  before  when  you 
played  that  overture  you  were  off  your  guard.  I 
thought  that  if  I  could  get  you  to  play  it  again  to- 
night—  the  overture  which  was  once  strummed  out 
in  a  dingy  cafe  at  Wadi  Haifa  —  to-night  again  I 
should  find  you  off  your  guard." 

His  words  took  her  breath  away  and  the  colour 
from  her  cheeks.  She  got  up  slowly  from  her  chair 
and  stared  at  him  wide-eyed.  He  could  not  know. 
It  was  impossible.     He  did  not  know. 

But  Durrance  went  quietly  on. 

"  Well  ?  Did  you  take  back  your  feather  ?  The 
fourth  one  ? " 

These  to  Ethne  were  the  incredible  words.     Dur- 


39©  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

ranee  spoke  them  with  a  smile  upon  his  face.  It 
took  her  a  long  time  to  understand  that  he  had 
actually  spoken  them.  She  was  not  sure  at  the  first 
that  her  overstrained  senses  were  not  playing  her 
tricks ;  but  he  repeated  his  question,  and  she  could  no 
longer  disbelieve  or  misunderstand. 

"  Who  told  you  of  any  fourth  feather  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Trench,"  he  answered.  "  I  met  him  at  Dover. 
But  he  only  told  me  of  the  fourth  feather,"  said 
Durrance.  "  I  knew  of  the  three  before.  Trench 
would  never  have  told  me  of  the  fourth  had  I  not 
known  of  the  three.  For  I  should  not  have  met  him 
as  he  landed  from  the  steamer  at  Dover.  I  should 
not  have  asked  him,  'Where  is  Harry  Feversham?' 
And  for  me  to  know  of  the  three  was  enough." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  she  cried  in  a  kind  of 
despair,  and  coming  close  to  her  he  took  gently  hold 
of  her  arm. 

"But  since  I  know,"  he  protested,  "what  does  it 
matter  how  I  know?  I  have  known  a  long  while, 
ever  since  Captain  Willoughby  came  to  The  Pool  with 
the  first  feather.  I  waited  to  tell  you  that  I  knew 
until  Harry  Feversham  came  back,  and  he  came  to- 
day." 

Ethne  sat  down  in  her  chair  again.  She  was 
stunned  by  Durrance's  unexpected  disclosure.  She 
had  so  carefully  guarded  her  secret,  that  to  realise 
that  for  a  year  it  had  been  no  secret  came  as  a  shock 
to  her.  But,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  confusion,  she 
understood  that  she  must  have  time  to  gather  up  her 
faculties  again  under  command.  So  she  spoke  of  the 
unimportant  thing  to  gain  the  time. 

"  You  were  in  the  church,  then  ?     Or  you  heard  us 


AGAIN   THE    M US O LINE    OVERTURE       391 

upon  the  steps  ?  Or  you  met  —  him  as  he  rode 
away  ? " 

"  Not  one  of  the  conjectures  is  right,"  said  Dur- 
rance,  with  a  smile.  Ethne  had  hit  upon  the  right 
subject  to  delay  the  statement  of  the  decision  to 
which  she  knew  very  well  that  he  had  come.  Dur- 
rance  had  his  vanities  like  others ;  and  in  particular 
one  vanity  which  had  sprung  up  within  him  since  he 
had  become  blind.  He  prided  himself  upon  the 
quickness  of  his  perception.  It  was  a  delight  to  him 
to  make  discoveries  which  no  one  expected  a  man 
who  had  lost  his  sight  to  make,  and  to  announce 
them  unexpectedly.  It  was  an  additional  pleasure  to 
relate  to  his  puzzled  audience  the  steps  by  which  he 
had  reached  his  discovery.  "  Not  one  of  your  con- 
jectures is  right,  Ethne,"  he  said,  and  he  practically 
asked  her  to  question  him. 

"  Then  how  did  you  find  out  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  knew  from  Trench  that  Harry  Feversham  would 
come  some  day,  and  soon.  I  passed  the  church  this 
afternoon.  Your  collie  dog  barked  at  me.  So  I 
knew  you  were  inside.  But  a  saddled  horse  was  tied 
up  beside  the  gate.  So  some  one  else  was  with  you, 
and  not  any  one  from  the  village.  Then  I  got  you  to 
play,  and  that  told  me  who  it  was  who  rode  the 
horse." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ethne,  vaguely.  She  had  barely  listened 
to  his  words.  "  Yes,  I  see."  Then  in  a  definite  voice, 
which  showed  that  she  had  regained  all  her  self- 
control,  she  said :  — 

"You  went  away  to  Wiesbaden  for  a  year.  You 
went  away  just  after  Captain  Willoughby  came. 
Was  that  the  reason  why  you  went  away  ? " 


392  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  I  went  because  neither  you  nor  I  could  have  kept 
up  the  game  of  pretences  we  were  playing.  You 
were  pretending  that  you  had  no  thought  for  Harry 
Feversham,  that  you  hardly  cared  whether  he  was 
alive  or  dead.  I  was  pretending  not  to  have  found 
out  that  beyond  everything  in  the  world  you  cared 
for  him.  Some  day  or  other  we  should  have  failed, 
each  one  in  turn.  I  dared  not  fail,  nor  dared  you. 
I  could  not  let  you,  who  had  said  '  Two  lives  must 
not  be  spoilt  because  of  me,'  live  through  a  year 
thinking  that  two  lives  had  been  spoilt.  You  on  your 
side  dared  not  let  me,  who  had  said  '  Marriage  be- 
tween a  blind  man  and  a  woman  is  only  possible 
when  there  is  more  than  friendship  on  both  sides/ 
know  that  upon  one  side  there  was  only  friendship, 
and  we  were  so  near  to  failing.     So  I  went  away." 

"  You  did  not  fail,"  said  Ethne,  quietly ;  "  it  was 
only  I  who  failed." 

She  blamed  herself  most  bitterly.  She  had  set 
herself,  as  the  one  thing  worth  doing,  and  incumbent 
on  her  to  do,  to  guard  this  man  from  knowledge 
which  would  set  the  crown  on  his  calamities,  and  she 
had  failed.  He  had  set  himself  to  protect  her  from 
the  comprehension  that  she  had  failed,  and  he  had 
succeeded.  It  was  not  any  mere  sense  of  humili- 
ation, due  to  the  fact  that  the  man  whom  she  had 
thought  to  hoodwink  had  hoodwinked  her,  which 
troubled  her.  But  she  felt  that  she  ought  to  have 
succeeded,  since  by  failure  she  had  robbed  him  of  his 
last  chance  of  happiness.  There  lay  the  sting  for 
her. 

"  But  it  was  not  your  fault,"  he  said.  "  Once  or 
twice,  as  I  said,  you  were  off  your  guard,  but  the  con- 


AGAIN   THE    M US 0 LINE    OVERTURE       393 

vincing  facts  were  not  revealed  to  me  in  that  way. 
When  you  played  the  Musoline  Overture  before,  on 
the  night  of  the  day  when  Willoughby  brought  you 
such  good  news,  I  took  to  myself  that  happiness 
of  yours  which  inspired  your  playing.  You  must  not 
blame  yourself.  On  the  contrary,  you  should  be 
glad  that  I  have  found  out." 

"  Glad !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  for  my  sake,  glad."  And  as  she  looked  at 
him  in  wonderment  he  went  on :  "  Two  lives  should 
not  be  spoilt  because  of  you.  Had  you  had  your 
way,  had  I  not  found  out,  not  two  but  three  lives 
would  have  been  spoilt  because  of  you  —  because  of 
your  loyalty." 

"  Three  ? " 

"  Yours.  Yes  —  yes,  yours,  Feversham's,  and  mine. 
It  was  hard  enough  to  keep  the  pretence  during  the 
few  weeks  we  were  in  Devonshire.  Own  to  it, 
Ethne !  When  I  went  to  London  to  see  my  oculist 
it  was  a  relief ;  it  gave  you  a  pause,  a  rest  wherein  to 
drop  pretence  and  be  yourself.  It  could  not  have 
lasted  long  even  in  Devonshire.  But  what  when  we 
came  to  live  under  the  same  roof,  and  there  were  no 
visits  to  the  oculist,  when  we  saw  each  other  every 
hour  of  every  day  ?  Sooner  or  later  the  truth  must 
have  come  to  me.  It  might  have  come  gradually,  a 
suspicion  added  to  a  suspicion  and  another  to  that 
until  no  doubt  was  left.  Or  it  might  have  flashed  out 
in  one  terrible  moment.  But  it  would  have  been 
made  clear.  And  then,  Ethne  ?  What  then  ?  You 
aimed  at  a  compensation ;  you  wanted  to  make  up  to 
me  for  the  loss  of  what  I  love  —  my  career,  the  army, 
the  special  service  in    the    strange    quarters   of   the 


\S 


394  THE    FOUR    FEJTHERS 

world.  A  fine  compensation  to  sit  in  front  of  you 
knowing  you  had  married  a  cripple  out  of  pity,  and 
that  in  so  doing  you  had  crippled  yourself  and  fore- 
gone the  happiness  which  is  yours  by  right.  Whereas 
now  —  " 

"  Whereas  now  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  I  remain  your  friend,  which  I  would  rather  be 
than  your  unloved  husband,"  he  said  very  gently. 

Ethne  made  no  rejoinder.  The  decision  had  been 
taken  out  of  her  hands. 

"  You  sent  Harry  away  this  afternoon,"  said  Dur- 
rance.     "  You  said  good-bye  to  him  twice." 

At  the  "twice"  Ethne  raised  her  head,  but  before 
she  could  speak  Durrance  explained  :  — 

"Once  in  the  church,  again  upon  your  violin,"  and 
he  took  up  the  instrument  from  the  chair  on  which 
she  had  laid  it.  "  It  has  been  a  very  good  friend, 
your  violin,"  he  said.  "A  good  friend  to  me,  to  us 
all.  You  will  understand  that,  Ethne,  very  soon. 
I  stood  at  the  window  while  you  played  it.  I  had 
never  heard  anything  in  my  life  half  so  sad  as  your 
farewell  to  Harry  Feversham,  and  yet  it  was  nobly 
sad.  It  was  true  music,  it  did  not  complain."  He 
laid  the  violin  down  upon  the  chair  again. 

"  I  am  going  to  send  a  messenger  to  Rathmullen. 
Harry  cannot  cross  Lough  Swilly  to-night.  The  mes- 
senger will  bring  him  back  to-morrow." 

It  had  been  a  day  of  many  emotions  and  surprises 
for  Ethne.  As  Durrance  bent  down  towards  her,  he 
became  aware  that  she  was  crying  silently.  For 
once  tears  had  their  way  with  her.  He  took  his  cap 
and  walked  noiselessly  to  the  door  of  the  room.  As 
he  opened  it,  Ethne  got  up. 


AGAIN   THE    MUSOLINE    OVERTURE       395 

"  Don't  go  for  a  moment,"  she  said,  and  she  left 
the  fireplace  and  came  to  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"The  oculist  at  Wiesbaden?"  she  asked.  "He 
gave  you  a  hope  ?  " 

Durrance  stood  meditating  whether  he  should  lie 
or  speak  the  truth. 

"  No,"  he  said  at  length.  "  There  is  no  hope.  But 
I  am  not  so  helpless  as  at  one  time  I  was  afraid  that 
I  should  be.  I  can  get  about,  can't  I  ?  Perhaps  one 
of  these  days  I  shall  go  on  a  journey,  one  of  the  long 
journeys  amongst  the  strange  people  in  the  East." 

He  went  from  the  house  upon  his  errand.  He  had 
learned  his  lesson  a  long  time  since,  and  the  violin 
had  taught  it  him.  It  had  spoken  again  that  after- 
noon, and  though  with  a  different  voice,  had  offered 
to  him  the  same  message.  The  true  music  cannot 
complain. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 


THE    END 


In  the  early  summer  of  next  year  two  old  men  sat 
reading  their  newspapers  after  breakfast  upon  the 
terrace  of  Broad  Place.  The  elder  of  the  two  turned 
over  a  sheet. 

"  I  see  Osman  Digna's  back  at  Suakin,"  said  he. 
"  There's  likely  to  be  some  fighting." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  other,  "  he  will  not  do  much  harm." 
And  he  laid  down  his  paper.  The  quiet  English 
country-side  vanished  from  before  his  eyes.  He  saw 
only  the  white  city  by  the  Red  Sea  shimmering  in 
the  heat,  the  brown  plains  about  it  with  their  tangle 
of  halfa  grass,  and  in  the  distance  the  hills  towards 
Khor  Gwob. 

"A  stuffy  place  Suakin,  eh,  Sutch  ? "  said  General 
Feversham. 

"  Appallingly  stuffy.  I  heard  of  an  officer  who 
went  down  on  parade  at  six  o'clock  of  the  morning 
there,  sunstruck  in  the  temples  right  through  a  regu- 
lation helmet.  Yes,  a  town  of  dank  heat !  But  I 
was  glad  to  be  there  —  very  glad,"  he  said  with  some 
feeling. 

"Yes,"  said  Feversham,  briskly;  "ibex,  eh?" 
1/        "No,"  replied  Sutch.     "All  the  ibex  had  been  shot 
off  by  the  English  garrison  for  miles  round." 

396 


THE   END 


397 


"  No  ?     Something  to  do,  then.     That's  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  it,  Feversham.     Something  to  do." 

And  both  men  busied  themselves  again  over  their 
papers.  But  in  a  little  while  a  footman  brought  to 
each  a  small  pile  of  letters.  General  Feversham  ran 
over  his  envelopes  with  a  quick  eye,  selected  one  let- 
ter, and  gave  a  grunt  of  satisfaction.  He  took  a  pair 
of  spectacles  from  a  case  and  placed  them  upon  his 
nose. 

"  From  Ramelton  ? "  asked  Sutch,  dropping  his 
newspaper  on  to  the  terrace. 

"  From  Ramelton,"  answered  Feversham.  "  I'll 
light  a  cigar  first." 

He  laid  the  letter  down  on  the  garden  table  which 
stood  between  his  companion  and  himself,  drew  a 
cigar-case  from  his  pocket,  and  in  spite  of  the  im- 
patience of  Lieutenant  Sutch,  proceeded  to  cut  and 
light  it  with  the  utmost  deliberation.  The  old  man 
had  become  an  epicure  in  this  respect.  A  letter  from 
Ramelton  was  a  luxury  to  be  enjoyed  with  all  the 
accessories  of  comfort  which  could  be  obtained.  He 
made  himself  comfortable  in  his  chair,  stretched  out 
his  legs,  and  smoked  enough  of  his  cigar  to  assure 
himself  that  it  was  drawing  well.  Then  he  took  up 
his  letter  again  and  opened  it. 

"  From  him  ?  "  asked  Sutch. 

"  No  ;  from  her." 

"Ah!" 

General  Feversham  read  the  letter  through  slowly, 
while  Lieutenant  Sutch  tried  not  to  peep  at  it  across 
the  table.  When  the  general  had  finished  he  turned 
back  to  the  first  page,  and  began  it  again. 

"  Any  news  ?  "  said  Sutch,  with  a  casual  air. 


398  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

"  They  are  very  pleased  with  the  house  now  that 
it's  rebuilt." 

"  Anything  more  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Harry's  finished  the  sixth  chapter  of  his 
history  of  the  war." 

"  Good  !  "  said  Sutch.  "  You'll  see,  he'll  do  that 
well.  He  has  imagination,  he  knows  the  ground,  he 
was  present  while  the  war  went  on.  Moreover,  he 
was  in  the  bazaars,  he  saw  the  under  side  of  it." 

"  Yes.  But  you  and  I  won't  read  it,  Sutch,"  said 
Feversham.  "  No ;  I  am  wrong.  You  may,  for  you 
can  give  me  a  good  many  years." 

He  turned  back  to  his  letter  and  again  Sutch 
asked :  — 

"  Anything  more  ?  " 

"  Yes.     They  are  coming  here  in  a  fortnight." 

"  Good,"  said  Sutch.     "  I  shall  stay." 

He  took  a  turn  along  the  terrace  and  came  back. 
He  saw  Feversham  sitting  with  the  letter  upon  his 
knees  and  a  frown  of  great  perplexity  upon  his  face. 

"  You  know,  Sutch,  I  never  understood,"  he  said. 
"  Did  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  did." 

Sutch  did  not  try  to  explain.  It  was  as  well,  he 
thought,  that  Feversham  never  would  understand. 
For  he  could  not  understand  without  much  self- 
reproach. 

"  Do  you  ever  see  Durrance  ?  "  asked  the  general, 
suddenly. 

"  Yes,  I  see  a  good  deal  of  Durrance.  He  is 
abroad  just  now." 

Feversham  turned  towards  his  friend. 

"  He   came   to    Broad    Place   when   you   went   to 


THE   END  399 

Suakin,  and  talked  to  me  for  half  an  hour.  He  was 
Harry's  best  man.  Well,  that  too  I  never  under- 
stood.    Did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  understood  that  as  well." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  General  Feversham.  He  asked  for 
no  explanations,  but,  as  he  had  always  done,  he  took 
the  questions  which  he  did  not  understand  and  put 
them  aside  out  of  his  thoughts.  But  he  did  not  turn 
to  his  other  letters.  He  sat  smoking  his  cigar,  and 
looked  out  across  the  summer  country  and  listened 
to  the  sounds  rising  distinctly  from  the  fields. 
Sutch  had  read  through  all  of  his  correspondence 
before  Feversham  spoke  again. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  he  said.  "  Have  you 
noticed  the  date  of  the  month,  Sutch?"  and  Sutch 
looked  up  quickly. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  this  day  next  week  will  be  the 
anniversary  of  our  attack  upon  the  Redan,  and  Harry's 
birthday." 

"  Exactly,"  replied  Feversham.  "  Why  shouldn't 
we  start  the  Crimean  nights  again  ?  " 

Sutch  jumped  up  from  his  chair. 

"  Splendid  !  "  he  cried.  "  Can  we  muster  a  table- 
ful, do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Let's  see,"  said  Feversham,  and  ringing  a  hand- 
bell upon  the  table,  sent  the  servant  for  the  Army 
List.  Bending  over  that  Army  List  the  two  veterans 
may  be  left. 

But  of  one  other  figure  in  this  story  a  final  word 
must  be  said.  That  night,  when  the  invitations  had 
been  sent  out  from  Broad  Place,  and  no  longer  a 
light  gleamed  from  any  window  of  the  house,  a  man 
leaned  over  the  rail  of  a  steamer  anchored  at  Port 


4oo  THE    FOUR    FEATHERS 

Said  and  listened  to  the  song  of  the  Arab  coolies  as 
they  tramped   up   and  down  the  planks  with  their 
coal  baskets  between  the  barges  and  the  ship's  side. 
The  clamour  of  the  streets  of  the  town  came  across 
the  water  to  his  ears.     He  pictured  to  himself  the 
flare  of  braziers  upon  the  quays,  the  lighted  port-holes, 
and  dark  funnels  ahead  and  behind  in  the  procession 
of  the  anchored  ships.     Attended  by  a  servant,  he 
had  come  back  to  the  East  again.     Early  the  next 
morning  the  steamer  moved  through  the  canal,  and 
towards  the  time  of  sunset  passed  out  into  the  chills 
of  the  Gulf  of  Suez.     Kassasin,  Tel-el-Kebir,  Tamai, 
Tamanieb,  the  attack  upon  McNeill's  zareeba — Dur- 
rance   lived  again   through   the    good    years    of    his 
activity,  the  years  of  plenty.     Within  that  country  on 
the  west  the  long  preparations  were  going  steadily 
forward  which  would   one  day  roll  up  the  Dervish 
Empire  and  crush  it  into  dust.     Upon  the  glacis  of 
the  ruined  fort  of   Sinkat,  Durrance   had  promised 
himself  to  take  a  hand  in  that  great  work,  but  the 
desert  which  he  loved  had  smitten  and  cast  him  out. 
But  at  all  events  the  boat  steamed  southwards  into 
the   Red  Sea.     Three  nights  more,  and  though  he 
would   not   see   it,   the   Southern   Cross    would    lift 
slantwise  into  the  sky. 


THE 

COURTSHIP    OF    MAURICE    BUCKLER 

A  ROMANCE 

Being  a  record  of  the  growth  of  an  English  Gentleman,  during  the  years 

of  1685-1687,  under  strange  and  difficult  circumstances,  written  some 

while  afterward  in  his  own  hand,  and  now  edited  by 

A.   E.    W.  MASON 
12mo.       Cloth.      $1.25 


Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin :  In  spirit  and  color  it  reminds 
us  of  the  very  remarkable  books  of  Mr.  Conon  Doyle.  The 
author  has  measurably  caught  the  fascinating  diction  of  the  sev- 
enteenth century,  and  the  strange  adventures  with  which  the 
story  is  filled  are  of  a  sufficiently  perilous  order  to  entertain  the 
most  Homeric  mind. 

Boston  Courier:  In  this  elaborately  ingenious  narrative  the 
adventures  recorded  are  various  and  exciting  enough  to  suit 
the  most  exacting  reader.  The  incidents  recited  are  of  extreme 
interest,  and  are  not  drawn  out  into  noticeable  tenuity. 

The  Outlook:  "The  Courtship  of  Maurice  Buckler"  is  not 
only  full  of  action  and  stimulating  to  curiosity,  but  tells  a  quite 
original  plot  in  a  clever  way.  Perhaps  in  its  literary  kinship  it 
approaches  more  closely  to  "The  Prisoner  of  Zenda"  than  to 
any  other  recent  novel,  but  there  is  no  evidence  of  imitation ; 
the  resemblance  is  in  the  spirit  and  dash  of  the  narrative.  The 
merit  of  this  story  is  not  solely  in  its  grasp  on  the  reader's  atten- 
tion and  its  exciting  situations  ;  it  is  written  in  excellent  English, 
the  dialogue  is  natural  and  brisk,  the  individual  characters  stand 
out  clearly,  and  the  flavor  of  the  time  is  well  preserved. 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


. 


\ 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO— ■+►      202  Main  Library 


1909 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2                               3 

4 

5                               6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1-mwnh  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

[ifVilo^ 

*EC£iVf 

. 

c«cuunoM  d 

^jPi 

nt  2'}  1Q8Q 

U  L     WU      lylVJ 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  1/83  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


ry\J 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


BDODTl?^? 


z 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


